I wrapped myself in the cloak of invisibility and allowed myself eleven days of silence. Eleven days to grieve, to exist in the emptiness left behind. It feels as if someone reached into my chest, took my heart and lungs, and commanded me to keep living.
But how does one breathe when the air is gone? How does one move when the weight of loss turns every limb to stone? I sit in the stillness, hoping that in the quiet, I might find a way to piece myself back together.
But grief is not gentle. It does not wait for permission. It paralyses, flooding every corner of my being with an ache so deep it swallows time itself. I wake, but I do not rise. I exist, but I do not live. The world moves on, indifferent to the storm unfolding inside me. And so, I remain here, in the silence, mourning what was, mourning what will never be.
In the darkness, a friendly reminder: “it shall pass” - there’s your handwriting on it - one day breath will return, and will find my way back to myself.
But no matter how loudly my heart calls for you, no matter how many times I say I love you before I sleep, there is no path, no bridge, no flight, no way to reach you again.