Dead hearts don't heal

There is something wrong with the way her heart continues to work.
It beats, but not gently.
It drags her through days that feel heavier than sleep, through nights that refuse rest, through a life that no longer feels like hers. Something inside her died long ago, and what remains is only the echo of it, pulsing out of habit rather than will.
She is tired in a way sleep cannot fix, empty in a way words cannot fill. And sometimes, the cruelest part is not the world around her, but the thing inside her chest that keeps hurting her from within.