I write and I was good with words. There was no place I couldn't describe. No emotion I couldn't portray. No story I couldn't tell.
But with this. With this emotion in my chest. That I feel every waking hour, and suffocates me in my sleep. Something that tethered itself to me. . . and yet. And yet I still couldn't write about. I couldn't find the words to make it seen, heard, understood.
And then someone from the past whispered. . . It is grief. It is sorrow. It is betrayal. But from him.
