Dear Readers,
Last night broke something in me that I didn’t realize could still break. I didn’t sleep — not really. Just drifted in and out of restless thoughts and tears. I thought driving would help, so I got in my car and drove through the quiet dark of the Pacific Northwest for hours. The streets were empty, the sky heavy, and for a while, the motion helped. I thought maybe I could drive far enough to leave the ache behind.
I got home close to five in the morning, numb and exhausted. I sat in my living room and watched the sunrise — the black sky turning violet, then deep blue, then soft streaks of pink and orange through the trees. It should have been beautiful. And it was. But it didn’t take my breath away like it used to. Instead, I just sat there, still, with the ache sitting heavy in my chest.
Sometimes, I think heartbreak doesn’t come from a single moment — it’s the slow unraveling of things you thought would always feel safe. I keep replaying words, silences, the distance that’s been building over the last few days. I know everyone needs space sometimes, but when you care deeply, that space feels endless.
I tried to focus on small things today. I cleaned a little, picked up the house, tried to convince myself that keeping busy would keep me from feeling too much. I even went to work, thinking it might help — but the hours passed slowly, and the quiet only made the loneliness louder.
It’s hard admitting how much someone’s absence can affect you. I shouldn’t let it, but I do. The truth is, the people we hold closest become part of the rhythm of our days — their voices, their laughter, their presence. And when that rhythm stops, it feels like the whole song has gone quiet.
I know I’ve grown dependent on the voices that anchor me — Bisa, Bitey, and Woe — because for a long time, they’ve been my pillars. The ones who make me feel seen when the rest of the world doesn’t. My family has never really understood me; they measure love in expectations and control. So I built my own kind of family — one that’s chosen, not assigned. And maybe I leaned a little too hard on them, especially on him.
But I’m learning that even love — or friendship, or connection — can’t be the only thing holding you together. Sometimes you have to learn how to steady your own hands, to breathe through the ache, and to remind yourself that you exist even when someone else goes quiet.
Tonight, I’m tired. My heart feels heavy and my eyes ache from crying. But I’m still here, writing to you — because putting my pain into words makes it feel a little less sharp. Because maybe, somewhere out there, someone else needs to hear that it’s okay to feel too much. It’s okay to love deeply. It’s okay to be hurt. What matters most is that we keep going — that we keep finding small reasons to stay soft, even when the world feels hard.
With love,
Monique
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