Otkad Te Nema Ja Nemam Sna: The Raw Truth of Missing Someone

The first night you were gone, I stared at the ceiling for hours. The silence wasn’t just quiet—it was heavy, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I had read somewhere that absence sharpens the senses, but no one warns you how it dulls everything else. The coffee tasted like ash, the streets felt wider, and my thoughts moved slower, as if wading through thick mud. I tried counting sheep, then backward from a hundred, then reciting old poems I hadn’t thought of in years. Nothing worked. Sleep had become a luxury I couldn’t afford.

By the third night, I gave up pretending. I turned on the lamp at 2 AM and just sat there, letting the light burn my eyes. The psychologist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross once wrote about the stages of grief, but she never mentioned the stage where you bargain with the universe for just one more hour of oblivion. I would’ve traded anything—my favorite book, my last good shirt, even the memory of your laugh—if it meant I could close my eyes and not see your face behind my lids. But the brain doesn’t work like that. It clings to what’s missing like a drowning man to driftwood.

I tried distractions. Snai Italia’s platform was supposed to be just a way to pass time, but the bright lights and quick rewards only made the emptiness sharper. The bonus di benvenuto generoso was nice, sure, but no amount of free spins could fill the hole you left. I’d win, lose, win again—none of it mattered. The screen’s glow just highlighted how alone I was in that room. Psychologist John Cacioppo’s research on loneliness kept echoing in my head: ‘The pain of isolation is as real as physical pain.’ I believed it now. My ribs ached like I’d been kicked.

One morning, I found your sweater still hanging on the chair. I buried my face in it, inhaling the last traces of your scent. It smelled like vanilla and something faintly metallic, like the air before rain. I wanted to burn it. I wanted to frame it. Instead, I just sat there, holding it until my arms went numb. The safe payment methods on Snai Italia couldn’t buy back what I’d lost, no matter how fast the transactions were. Money moves quickly; healing doesn’t.

I started writing letters I’d never send. Pages and pages of things I should’ve said, things I wished I could take back. The ink bled through the paper, leaving smudges like tear stains. At some point, I realized I wasn’t even writing to you anymore—I was writing to the version of myself that still believed in happy endings. That version was gone too. The only thing left was this raw, jagged thing that couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t pretend everything was fine.

Then, one night, something shifted. I don’t know if it was exhaustion or acceptance, but I finally slept. Not well, not deeply, but enough to wake up without that crushing weight on my chest. The sun came through the curtains, and for the first time in weeks, I didn’t flinch away from it. I still missed you. I still ached. But the world didn’t feel like it was ending anymore. Maybe that’s what they mean by survival—not healing, not forgetting, just learning to breathe around the pain.

Now, when the nights get long, I don’t fight it. I let the memories come, let them sit with me like old friends who’ve overstayed their welcome. Sometimes I play on Snai Italia, not for the thrill, but for the routine. The familiar clicks, the predictable outcomes—they’re a kind of comfort. The bonus spins don’t fix anything, but they remind me that life keeps moving, even when I don’t. And maybe, someday, I’ll sleep through the night again. Not because I’ve forgotten, but because I’ve learned to carry the weight without letting it break me.