what the hell, sure

Thursday afternoon.

The light outside is soft, almost kind. I wish I felt the same way.

I’m drowning myself in music, still looping the sad playlist I found last night. It offers a kind of sadness that doesn’t ask questions. It just sits with me, giving me enough stillness to write.

I’m not looking for sympathy, just some release. Maybe I’ve run out of ways to say the same things without feeling ashamed. I hate how often I’ve had to unpack everything onto the same few people. The same thoughts, the same grief resurfacing, the same quiet unraveling. It’s gotten to the point where vulnerability feels like embarrassment, so I retreat to this instead.

I’ve been trying to learn how to let go, or move forward, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Everyone says it gets easier. I’m still waiting for that part.

Some days I convince myself I’m okay. That I’m past it. That I’ve accepted what happened. But if that were true, I wouldn’t feel this defeated. I wouldn’t be sitting here, ashamed of how much it still hurts, writing my feelings down like a fucking loser.

The worst part is there isn’t one specific thing that triggers it. He just shows up. In passing faces, in places we never shared, in moments that should feel empty. It’s exhausting. The world starts to feel haunted. My thoughts become a place where memory and longing keep repeating themselves.

I try to distract myself, to keep them apart, but sometimes I stop resisting and let it all come at once. Then I freeze. Still, there’s a strange comfort in surrendering to it, in letting the ache settle where it wants to. It bears a lot of pain, but it’s familiar. And familiar is comforting, even when it hurts.

I’m aware of myself through all of this. I recognize the patterns. I know the language people use for it, growth, closure, self-respect. I understand how healing is supposed to work. But when I stop intellectualizing it and just feel it, the sadness softens. It becomes almost safe. Like my body is finally catching up to what my mind has been trying to outrun.

Sometimes I get brief moments of clarity, like I’ve stepped outside of myself. I can imagine a version of life where this doesn’t hurt anymore. Where he is just a chapter, not an absence. In those moments, there’s relief. Lightness. Like I’ve finally moved on.

But it never lasts. Reality settles back in, and I realize I mistook numbness for closure, distance for growth. And I’m back where I started, missing him in ways I still don’t know how to explain without sounding ridiculous, repeating a role I thought I had already outgrown.

But whatever.

I’ll let the words carry me somewhere between heartache and hope.

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