We Bloomed Then Withered

 To some, it creeps in gradually, little by little, consistent changes, ignored patterns that soon explodes. To others, it hits suddenly, below the belt where the pain is sharp and quick. The type that will have you up at three in the morning.

Pain does not always announce itself in obvious ways, not the usual raised voices behind slammed doors that comes with exits. No, It is sometimes silent, coordinated, rehearsed and direct, not confusing. It comes with moments of reminiscing about what was and much more, what could have been. It comes with triggers, the type that makes your heartbeat palpitate faster than normal at their far away sight, similar voice sound or even a simple text from them.

Not everyone carries it the same way. Some wear it lightly, almost frighteningly calm, as though they had rehearsed the goodbye long before it arrived, waiting for it to arrive. They fold the memories neatly, tuck them away and continue with life as though nothing shifted. They speak about it with a casual shrug, distract themselves with work, friends or unfamiliar faces— a rebound, refusing to sit long enough for the silence to catch up with them. Others process it slowly, painfully slow. The kind that does not hit immediately but settles into the body over time. One day they are fine, and the next, a song, a fragrance, a voice or an old conversation, like a deja vu, drags them under without warning. Then there are those who fight it aggressively, resisting every part of the ending. They are quick to delete memories, say things they do not mean and try to convince themselves that anger is easier to carry than disappointment. But regardless of how it is expressed, whether through calm acceptance, delayed grief or loud resistance, it all traces back to the same thing, the unbearable task of teaching the heart to live without what it had grown used to overtime.

The loneliness that follows is often not immediate. It creeps in through routines once lived. The unread messages that no longer arrive, the calls that never went through, the instinct to reach for your phone when something happens, only to remember there is no one on the other side waiting anymore. It is in the quiet moments, the spaces between busy hours, the walk home, the extra seat, the long nights that suddenly feel longer. Loneliness after loss is not always about being alone, sometimes it is about realizing someone once occupied parts of your life so naturally that their absence now feels misplaced, almost unfamiliar.

Then the body begins to react in ways the mouth struggles to explain. Sleep becomes inconsistent, interrupted by thoughts that arrive uninvited at odd hours. Appetite changes. The chest feels heavier than normal. The heart races unexpectedly at the mention of a name, a passing resemblance or the vibration of a phone. Even the body mourns in silence. It remembers routines, tones, touch, timing and presence. Pain settles into the body differently for everyone, but somehow it always finds a place to stay before healing slowly asks it to leave.
Still, people pretend. They wake up, go to work, post pictures, laugh at jokes and answer “I’m fine” with utmost convincing smiles. Some hide behind productivity while others bury themselves in distractions, hoping movement will keep memory from catching up with them. But healing does not respond to performance. The truth always lingers in quieter moments, in songs played accidentally, in familiar places. Sometimes what hurts most is not even what happened, but what could have been. The future imagined so vividly that losing it feels like mourning something that never fully existed.

And then, eventually, acceptance arrives. Not dramatically, not all at once, bit by bit. It begins with fewer replays of old conversations, fewer tears attached to certain memories, managing to smile at their pictures, and longer moments of peace between the sadness. Healing is not forgetting, neither is it pretending the experience meant nothing. It is learning to carry the memory without allowing it control you completely. It is understanding that some people will leave traces of themselves within us long after they are gone. Perhaps that is the final stage of heartbreak, not resentment, not bitterness, but the quiet acceptance that love existed, pain followed and somehow, life continues still.

We all have our versions of heartbreak, mine was when my mother looked at me and closed her eyes in death at exactly three o'clock on the eight of March twenty eighteen. Ever since then, I've known pain, nothing could be more painful. 

Stay Loved 
Naz