It’s been two years since our world ended. Two years since the silence became deafening, since every breath felt like a betrayal of the one we lost. Our child. Our beautiful, vibrant child. Just gone. Vanished in an instant.
I remember the exact moment. The phone call. The shaking hands. The drive to the hospital, a blur of silent screams and choked sobs. Then, the doctor’s face. The words that weren’t words, just a void opening up in the universe. My partner was there, already broken. We clung to each other, two shattered halves of a whole, desperate for comfort in a world suddenly devoid of it. How could this be real?
The days that followed were a fog. Grief isn’t a wave; it’s a tsunami that never recedes. It’s the constant, crushing weight of an ocean, every single second. We moved through it like zombies, sharing haunted glances, unable to speak the unspeakable. But slowly, painstakingly, we started to rebuild. Not a new life, not really. Just a modified existence.
