Teddy may not have the words to express it, but his actions speak louder than anything a voice could ever say. In the quiet corners of the house, he moves with the gentle memory of someone he still longs for. Every morning, he noses through the same blanket—the one you gave him—the fabric now worn but still cradled like something sacred. He tucks it beneath his chin when he sleeps, curling up with the same gentle tenderness you used to show him. That blanket is more than warmth; to Teddy, it’s a piece of you.
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Teddy may not have the words to express it, but his actions speak louder than anything a voice could ever say. In the quiet corners of the house, he moves with the gentle memory of someone he still longs for. Every morning, he noses through the same blanket—the one you gave him—the fabric now worn but still cradled like something sacred. He tucks it beneath his chin when he sleeps, curling up with the same gentle tenderness you used to show him. That blanket is more than warmth; to Teddy, it’s a piece of you.
He still checks the couch where you used to sit. Teddy walks over, pauses, sniffs the cushion, and stares for a moment like he’s hoping you'll magically reappear. It’s where he remembers your laughter, your voice calling his name, your hand reaching out to scratch behind his ears. Sometimes, he jumps up, settles in the same spot beside the cushion, and lies there quietly—as if he’s waiting. As if, in that silence, he still feels you next to him.
There’s a toy he won’t let go of—his favorite one, the one you used to toss across the room while he ran to catch it with such joy. Now he carries it from room to room, not always to play, but simply to hold it. He’ll sit with it in his mouth, tail still, eyes scanning the room, a soft whine rising from his chest. It’s not a cry for attention. It’s the sound of longing—of missing someone who gave his days color.
Even his naps have changed. He doesn’t rest as deeply anymore. At the faintest sound of the door, Teddy lifts his head, eyes hopeful, ears twitching—always wondering, Could it be? Could they be home? He waits, and even when it’s not you, he never sulks. He just lays his head back down, heart still loyal.
Teddy doesn’t need to speak your name. Everything he does is a living memory of the bond you shared. In every soft sigh, every glance toward the door, every moment of stillness—he’s saying it: I miss you. I remember you. I love you still.
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