Every morning feels the same.
I wake up before my body is ready, before the world has decided what kind of day it will be. There is a brief, cruel second where I forget—where my mind is empty and light. And then it rushes back in.
The remembering.
It arrives before my feet touch the floor. A heaviness settles on my chest. My throat tightens. My heart begins to race, as though it has bad news to deliver and no gentle way to say it. My phone lies beside me—silent, unmoving. I still look at it, even though I already know. I always know.
Mornings hurt because night protected me.
Sleep gave me a few hours of mercy.
Morning takes it all back.
Each day begins with loss—again and again—as if the universe insists on reminding me that something ended without saying goodbye. I replay conversations that never happened. Explanations that never came. Apologies I will never hear. My mind searches for him the way the body searches for air after being held underwater.
There is a quiet panic in the morning—not loud, not dramatic—just a low dread that settles deep in the stomach. A feeling that something is wrong, profoundly wrong, and cannot be fixed today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.
Mornings are cruel because hope wakes up before logic does.
For a moment, I expect him.
Then reality walks in.
And I grieve him again—not because he died, but because he chose silence. Because he vanished. Because I loved someone who did not stay long enough to end things properly.
So I get up anyway. I wash my face. I breathe through the ache. I carry the weight into the day, knowing it will ease a little by afternoon, only to return the next morning—faithful, persistent—teaching me the slow, unbearable rhythm of letting go.
Three weeks of mornings like this do not mean I am broken.
They mean I loved deeply.
And my heart is learning, painfully, how to wake up alone.
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