You tell them you’re okay. You tell them it doesn’t trouble you. You say you’ve moved on and grown used to hurting. You say you’re numb to the pain.
How easily you lie now. How easily you utter falsity to people you say are dear to you. Who are you trying to fool? Certainly not yourself; the instant those words left your lips, you knew they were lies. All of it. And you nervously laugh it off, showing them how weakly tough you are.
You act like you’re having a fine time when all the while, that familiar throbbing is rising up from your gut to your chest. And it breaks off inexorably. Your breathing hitches; a lump in your throat. Happens every time, right? Every single time, you agree. Control it, you remind yourself. You’re weak! You know better than this.
You part with them and tread the familiar path to your house—which isn’t your home. All the while, tears threaten behind your lids. Alone again. No matter how many friends or beloved ones you have now, ultimately, you’ll be alone. They’ll all be gone and what will be left are scars.
You tell people you’re okay. You tell them it doesn’t trouble you. You say you’ve moved on and grown used to hurting. You say you’re numb to the pain. How pathetic. You never moved on. No one ever moves on. Grief scars you forever. With you it will stay forever.