I wake up at four in the morning with a heavy feeling. I stayed on my bed for a minute staring at the ceiling, hoping for its eventual collapse.
But the truth is, it is I who crumble, from the inside, slowly—as if dying, suffocating—but I remain calm and collected as I continue to fix my eyes in the darkness, embracing the unknown. The worst part is always the getting up, the gravity of dragging a body whose purpose died not too long ago. And then those little steps taken blindly as you walk out the room. What are broken bones compared to a broken, broken heart?
Writing about you had always hurt, even until now—fingertips sore yet still fumbling for words. But I will write, especially when it hurts the most at four in the morning. That’s the thing, writing about you never relieves the pain. It resurrects it.
But at least that way I would feel alive.