It's a hollow ache, mostly in the chest — not sharp like physical pain, but persistent, like a low hum you can't tune out. Sometimes it sits just below the ribs. It reminds me of hunger, actually, except food won't fix it. You find yourself reaching for your phone before you remember they won't reply. There's also something in the hands — a restlessness, like they're waiting to do something they can't do anymore.

For me it's mostly in the throat — a kind of tightening, like the beginning of tears that never quite come. And in the shoulders. They carry it. Whenever I miss my late grandmother, I feel it as this strange heaviness in the back of my neck and shoulders, like I'm wearing something heavy that has no weight. It's grief but slower. Softer. It has texture more than location.

It's the strangest mix — part of you feels full of the person (their voice is so clear in your head), but part of you feels completely empty because they're not actually there. Physically, I notice it as a kind of drawn-in feeling. Like my chest caves slightly inward. And there's often a temperature drop — missing someone feels cold to me.