Grief is supposed to come with an ending.
A goodbye.
A moment where everyone agrees that something is over.
We had our goodbye.
We reached that quiet place where we both agreed to let the pages close.
Yet, the finality of it does not stop the ache.
You are still alive.
Still breathing somewhere.
Still waking up to mornings I will never hear about.
And that is what makes everything so confusing.
Because how do you grieve someone who has not died?
How do you mourn a connection when the feelings buried only continue to grow?
We find ourselves trapped in a space where we have absolutely no control over what life handed, leaving us to wonder how we are ever supposed to control the chaos on our own end.
Was it even worth it to, when in the first place, there was no clear beginning, even though the ending is finally real?
And how do you ever accept an ending that never had a beginning either?
How do you stop missing a person in your life you never officially had?
Because every day you're grieving something may not even realize existed.
There is a rare, beautiful tragedy in carrying a love that only exists in the dark, that must survive entirely in the silence.