The elevator halted at eight, but nobody entered. I, my beagle dog, and two strangers stood there without looking at each other. A puddle was near his paw when I looked down. Heart dropped. I apologized, but the guy next me answered, “It’s okay. This makes me think of…

Unsure what to make of it. I had been in this elevator many times, but today seemed different—maybe it was the dog, who was still toilet training, or the stillness. As the two strangers didn’t appear to converse, I nearly startled when he spoke.

His speech was smooth and kind, but his eyes appeared faraway, like he was seeing something in his head. Anger wasn’t evident. He seemed wistful, like he wasn’t here. I looked at the lady next him. She stared straight ahead, arms folded over her chest. Unreadable displeasure and apathy characterized her features. She didn’t appear interested in his memories.

When the guy halted, the elevator air became dense with unsaid words. Another puddle formed as my pet stretched and yawned, apparently unconcerned. I scarcely noticed when the guy said, “This reminds me of when my dog was a pup. First time taking him on the elevator. I confess it was a disaster.”

The memories he recounted made me smile. What happened? My voice became interested as I asked.

The guy laughed. It was Saturday morning. Moving into this building. Big lab, my dog, has a problem with elevators when adjusting to the city. He initially tolerated them, then one day he peed all over the floor.”

I looked down again at my dog, who was now debating whether to lie in his puddle. “Like mine would do.”

His grin made me think he was done talking. However, he spoke again, spilling a secret. “My dog passed away a few years ago. Cancer. It occurred fast.”

The words lingered. Even though his voice was a whisper, they struck me hard. I lost Max, my golden retriever, in the past. I never expected to feel so raw in a foreign elevator. But I did.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, wondering what to say.

The lady beside him relaxed her arms as she looked at him. She looked to be avoiding engagement, but the narrative may have opened a door. She whispered, “You never forget them, do you?” I hadn’t noticed her tenderness before.

He shook his head. “You don’t. Like they leave part of themselves with you.”

Nobody got off the elevator when it dinged another level. We felt trapped in time, lingering in this common area between levels, not strangers but not familiar either.

I looked down at my dog, who was still playing with his tail, and felt a pain. I didn’t know how to go ahead, mourn, or take care of myself when Max died. I was processing my emotions. Even my adorable pet couldn’t replace the void. Maybe that’s why I noticed every little mess and error he made.

She said again, disrupting my thoughts. “I believe the worst thing is when they’re gone and you’re alone. The way they cuddle up at your feet or encourage you to play.”

I nodded, feeling the old chest pain. Now I realize how much I miss those simple moments. The vacant gaps were more than physical. The emotions stayed even today.

The guy suddenly exclaimed, “I had a cat,” his voice light, as if to change the situation. He was crazy and full of personality. The first time he leaped onto my lap, he effortlessly fit in, and I never had the heart to tell him he was too large.

A cheeky kitten made me grin, thinking the joy of possessing something so spontaneous and alive. “Sounds like a good companion,” I responded, sounding lighter.

He said, “Yeah, he was,” softening his gaze. “Animals remind us that we cannot control everything. You can’t control their stay or occasionally their actions. They’re there, which is enough.”

The elevator slowed, marking our halt. She stopped when the door opened. She glanced back and met his eyes for the first time on the journey.

“I know it’s hard,” she said, “but you have to grieve. Let yourself miss them.”

The guy smiled tightly, his eyes reflecting unsaid feelings. “Thanks. Perhaps I needed to hear that.”

They left without saying a word as the doors opened. I watched them go while holding my puppy’s leash, who had moved on from his mess and was sniffing around the corner.

It felt like I had changed, as did the air. It went beyond my pet and their dogs. Our attachment to memories, loved ones, and tiny bits of our existence was the theme. We often avoid discomfort by distracting ourselves, but occasionally we must experience it. Moving ahead requires it.

My dog was still sniffing the corner when I looked down. His huge, innocent brown eyes glanced up at me. I considered the possibility that I didn’t need to know everything. Maybe I just needed to welcome him into my life, mess and all, and learn to accept the defects.

As I exited the elevator on the next level, I felt lighter. Not everything was ideal. It wasn’t that I knew everything. I was more accepting of letting go of hurtful things. It was appropriate to mourn, miss, remember. Starting over and making fresh memories was fine.

Life doesn’t always provide closure. This may be because closure is not the goal. Learning to accept memories and allow them mold us is key.

That day, I left the building with a fresh perspective, my dog cheerfully running behind me, and a lighter heart.

We’re not forgetting what we lost. We must learn to bear it so we may go ahead one step at a time.

If you’ve ever been trapped between hanging on and letting go, take your time. Let yourself miss them. And one day, you’ll find the fortitude to go ahead, stronger from the memories.

Thanks for reading. If you liked this story, share it with those who need a reminder that it’s alright to mourn, miss, and move ahead.