Mourning in Public, Breaking in Private

After he died, the world mourned loudly. Candles flickered in crowds. Messages poured in from people who had never said his name before. Grief became a performance, shared, liked, reposted.

I participated because it felt wrong not to. But every public tribute felt incomplete, like reading only the cover of a book and claiming to know the story.

At home, I broke apart in ways no one saw. I talked to his absence. I set two cups on the table out of habit. I waited for him to come back long after I knew he wouldn’t.

Grief is not poetic when you live inside it. It’s ugly and repetitive and exhausting. It doesn’t want to teach you lessons or make you stronger. It just wants to exist, heavy and unrelenting.

Some nights, I hated the world for loving him only after he was gone. Other nights, I hated myself more.