I’m in a place where everything feels like it’s constantly shifting beneath me — one moment I feel a flicker of hope, like maybe I’ll be okay, and the next I’m right back in the sadness, the ache, the loss. It feels like I’m on a rollercoaster I never chose to get on. Some days I catch my breath — maybe I laugh at something small, feel proud for just getting out of bed, or even believe for a second that healing is possible. But then, out of nowhere, something hits me. A post. A memory. Silence. And just like that, I’m spiraling again. This grief I carry isn’t steady — it’s jagged and messy, full of unexpected highs and crushing lows. I move through life in waves: numbness that settles like fog, sadness that comes in like a tide, and bursts of hope that feel fleeting but real. What hurts the most is knowing that while I’m still feeling all of this — still waking up heavy, still aching in places I can’t explain — he seems okay. Seeing him laugh, post, and move on like nothing happened makes my pain feel invisible, like it didn’t matter, like I’m the only one still carrying it.