The Days We Lose

There’s a difference between missing a day and losing a day. A missed day can be made up for. A lost day can’t. And some days are not just mine,: they are his too.

It was supposed to be today. That one day in the week everything revolves around, the day I spend days building up to, the day I align my energy for, the day I set everything else aside for. One walk in nature, one morning outside, one chance to escape the walls that keep us so small. But I’m here. Inside. In the same room I’m always in. With sunlight that barely makes it past the flat next door. With my head buzzing and my body already still. And it hurts, but not just for me.

Fannar is seven. Which means we’ve already spent four years of his life in survival mode. Four years where he’s had far too little nature, far too little freedom to run, sniff, explore. Four years in which I haven’t been able to give him the life he deserves. And every time we get the chance to actually step into the car, leave this place, drive toward silence and green, and it doesn’t happen, it’s not just a missed day. It’s a piece of life we’ve lost. And it’s never coming back.

I carry it with me all day. The fact that he’s getting older. That his time isn’t endless. That there will be a day when he’s no longer here. And that I already know, when I look back then, I’ll think: we should have gone more often. We should have given him more freedom. And no matter how much I try to be fair to myself about what is possible, that thought bites. Because I know he’d be living so much healthier if we weren’t stuck here, between concrete and noise, always on guard, always limited. Sometimes I wonder if he wouldn’t truly be better off somewhere else, in a place where he could run free every day, where his paws would feel grass more often than pavement. But I can’t give him that now. And it hurts in a way that doesn’t let go, not even on the good days.

Today didn’t happen because Mart woke up way too early. He has to drive, and with his history of driving anxiety and our car without an inspection certificate, it’s already a burden. If he wakes before 3:30, restless, afraid he won’t fall back asleep, the whole plan teeters. And I understand. I do. But the hours before that I’m already awake, stuck between hope and doubt, not knowing whether to conserve my energy or start preparing. And when it falls apart again, everything I had counted on just hangs there unfinished.

The worst part is that Fannar could have seen his girlfriend tomorrow. She rarely comes anymore. Tomorrow she would have been here. But because we’re going tomorrow instead of today, he’ll miss her. Tomorrow he’ll only smell her scent. He’ll search. And I’ll have to look at him, knowing he doesn’t understand why she isn’t there. And in my mind, that will sit alongside all the other moments I’ve had to tell him: not today. Not now. Not here.

People think that the urge to still go, to take risks, is recklessness. That I should just be patient, that we can go tomorrow. But tomorrow is never guaranteed. Tomorrow something else might go wrong. Tomorrow my mother might disrupt our rhythm. Tomorrow the weather could turn. Tomorrow only exists for people who can afford to postpone without losing it altogether.

For us, every chance feels like it could be the last. And yet more and more of them slip through our fingers.
So I live between two kinds of loss: the loss of today, and the loss that will come one day, that already lives in my body now. It means I never truly rest, that even in quiet moments my mind drifts back to what he could have had, if only we were somewhere else. It makes every missed day feel like I’ve failed him. And that feeling sits with me, just as much as my love for him does.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of it all: knowing you can’t get a single second back, and you can’t freeze one either. All you can do is try to make it good while knowing time will keep moving, unbending and unpausing.

So today I stay here, with the knowledge that the days we lose aren’t just mine; they are his too. And that is exactly what makes them so precious. And so painful.