It was a stupidly cute bed.

Soft sides. Warm color. Exactly the kind I would have bought for him and then pretended was “for the house.”

I clicked it without thinking.

I even checked the size.

Then I remembered.

There was no reason to buy it.

I closed the page immediately, but the feeling stayed.

For years, seeing something made for dogs automatically created a tiny future in my head:

Would he like it? Would he fit? Would he ignore it and sleep on the floor anyway?

That habit did not disappear when he died.

Sometimes my mind still starts planning for him before reality catches up.

And when it does, the distance between those two moments hurts.

I used to think grief would only live in photographs, anniversaries and obvious memories.

I did not expect it to live inside shopping apps.

Inside recommendations. Inside the half-second before I remember there is no dog waiting at home for the thing I almost bought.

I suppose love created habits.

And habits take longer than facts to learn that someone is gone.