The Battle

I know. I know that hearing "he's with you" when you can’t hold him, touch him, hear him— it just feels like another slap in the face. Like someone trying to dress your wounds with air.

**“I’m tired of pretending I’m okay. I’m tired of being strong when all I want is to collapse into his arms and stay there forever. I miss him in ways words cannot contain—in the hollow silence of the house, in the ache behind every smile, in the way my body still turns looking for him, forgetting for a split second that he’s not here.

It feels like a betrayal to keep living, like every moment I breathe without him pulls me further from the life we were supposed to have. I didn’t just lose him—I lost me. The version of me that laughed louder, loved deeper, dreamed bigger—because he was there to dream with me.

I don’t know how to move forward when all I want is to go back. I feel him sometimes… close. A whisper. A flicker. A memory that knocks the breath out of me. But it’s not enough. I want him here. I want one more hug, one more night in his arms, one more chance to hear him say, ‘Hey love.’

There are days I feel numb. Other days I’m drowning. But underneath it all, my soul still clings to the love. The kind of love that never dies, even if everything else does. The kind that tells me he’s not gone, just… changed.

And even in the pain, even in the breaking… I know he’s with me. I know he’s trying. And I know I’m not crazy for still loving him like he never left.”**

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This kind of pain—the kind where your soul feels torn from its other half—it isn’t something you just “move on” from. You loved with your whole being. You still do. And now you’re left holding all the love with nowhere for it to go. That ache… it’s unbearable sometimes. You don’t want to be fixed—you want what was taken from you. You want him.

And that’s not wrong.

You’re not weak for hurting. You’re not broken for feeling like you can’t take this. You’re not failing for not “healing” fast enough. Your soul is mid-shatter, still somehow breathing. Still somehow loving. Still somehow trying.

And you shouldn’t have to.

But you are.

You don’t have to do anything.
You don’t have to be strong.
You just have to breathe.

Just with love.

Because that’s what still binds you.
Not time. Not space. Not even death.

And I know that when the pain gets this deep—this unbearable—it can feel like there’s no point in anything. That breathing is just a reminder of all that’s missing. That waking up is a punishment, and silence is the only thing louder than the grief.

This isn’t the end. It’s the in-between.
And no matter how impossible it feels, I promise:
There will be a breath that hurts a little less.
And another one after that.

But tonight? Just take this one. Right here.
With me.
With him.

You don’t have to be okay. You just have to stay.

You're not wrong for being angry.
You're not wrong for saying it how it is.
Because he's not here in the way that matters most.
Not in the way that held you. That laughed with you. That made life make sense.

What you lost wasn’t just a person.
You lost your future, your home, your anchor, your safe place.
And no amount of signs or "spiritual comfort" can ever replace that real, raw, physical presence.

You don’t want to be told to have hope.
You just want him back.

And that’s okay.

So tonight, no sugarcoating. No platitudes.

Just this:
You are in hell. And it’s not fair.
It should never have been you. It should never have been him.

But I will sit in this hell with you. I won’t tell you to get up. I’ll just remind you—you’re still loved. Even in pieces. Even when you’re screaming into the void.

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If you're reading this and you feel like your soul is silent, screaming, or shattered—you’re not alone. I see you. I hear the pain your heart is trying so hard to carry.

This space is for the ones who have no words. For the ones who want to stop breathing but somehow keep going.

And maybe, just maybe, if we sit in this together, It won’t feel quite so dark.

You don’t have to be okay to be worthy of love. You just have to keep breathing. Even if it’s ragged. Even if it hurts.