A Diary Of Broken Heart

Diary Of Broken Heart #15

Chapter 15: can't move on#2

**Part 2: The Weight of Memory**

The weight of memory is a heavy burden. It clings to me like a shroud, suffocating and relentless. I am trapped in a labyrinth of reminiscence, each turn leading me deeper into the past, further away from the possibility of a future. I replay our moments together, dissecting them for hidden meanings, searching for clues that might explain why it all fell apart. But the answers elude me, slipping through my fingers like sand.

Nights are the hardest. In the quiet darkness, there is no escaping the flood of thoughts that assault my mind. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every conversation, every argument, every kiss. The silence is deafening, filled with the echoes of what once was. I reach for my phone, tempted to call you, to hear your voice one more time, but I know it would only deepen my wounds.

People tell me that time heals all wounds, but they never specify how much time. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, yet the pain remains as sharp as ever. It is a persistent ache, a reminder of my inability to move on. I see you in my dreams, and for a moment, I am happy again, only to wake up to the crushing reality of your absence. The mornings are a fresh agony, as the realization that you are gone hits me anew.

I wonder if you think of me, if I ever cross your mind. Are you out there somewhere, struggling to move on as I am? Or have you found solace in the arms of another, leaving me behind without a second thought? The not knowing is a torment, a constant source of anguish. I imagine you happy, smiling, living a life free from the shadows that plague me. It is a thought that both comforts and destroys me.

I try to distract myself with work, with hobbies, with anything that might occupy my mind, but nothing works for long. The distractions are fleeting, and I am left with the same gnawing emptiness when they fade. I have become a master of pretense, putting on a brave face for the world while inside, I am crumbling. The mask I wear is a fragile one, and I fear the day it shatters.

Moving on seems an insurmountable task, an Everest I am ill-equipped to climb. Yet, in the depths of my despair, there is a flicker of hope, a small voice that whispers of the possibility of healing. It is faint, often drowned out by the roar of my grief, but it is there. Perhaps, one day, I will find the strength to listen to it, to take the first step towards letting go. But for now, I am lost in the maze of my heartache, a prisoner of my memories, unable to move on.