If both witnessing you and not witnessing you hurts me just the same, I don’t know which ache I should live with.
To see you in fragments, in stories, in the spaces we used to fill together; is to feel the weight of everything we are but can’t name. Your voice in the room still finds its way to me, your laugh still reaches like a thread I instinctively want to tug on, even if I know the spool has long been buried.
And yet, not seeing you at all makes the ache worse in another way.. like forgetting the exact shade of someone’s eyes and spending years trying to recall it in the dark.
What kind of choice is that?
To stay close and bleed quietly, or walk away and grieve a death no one else acknowledges.
This isn’t love the way it’s written in books. I don’t get to win in this. I only get to choose which loss I can carry.
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