Dear diary,
We spend our lives searching for someone whose broken pieces might fit with ours. We call it connection. Sometimes, we call it love.
Love is the biggest gamble we ever take. We open our chests and hand our fragile hearts to another person, trusting them—begging them—to be gentle. We give them the power to create our brightest days, and in doing so, we give them the power to create our darkest nights.
But people... people are not promises. They are not guarantees. They change, they leave, they forget. And the same hand that you used to trace like a map to paradise becomes the hand that waves goodbye.
And that's when the real pain starts. A broken heart isn't a clean snap. It’s a shredding. It’s waking up in the morning and for one, blessed second, you forget. And then you remember. And the weight of it all comes crashing back down, stealing your breath.
It’s walking around in a world that’s suddenly black and white while everyone else still sees in color. It’s the phantom limb of their presence; you keep reaching for a hand that isn't there, hearing a voice that’s gone.
They say time heals all wounds. What a lie. Time doesn't heal. It just... muffles. It teaches you to live with the limp. It covers the wound with scar tissue, but that tissue is tough, inflexible. You’re never the same. A part of you will always be standing by the exit, because you know. You know the cost.
And that, dear diary, is the terrible, agonizing tragedy. We know the risk. We’ve felt the pain. And yet... and yet, we still search. We still hope. I don’t know if that makes us incredibly brave, or just incredibly foolish.