MERCY

MERCY 

A new city won’t restore what was lost, but at least the ghosts won’t be waiting for me on every corner, in every store, in every familiar face. Out there, in that new city, the world won’t constantly remind me of what I had and who I lost. I won’t be walking through a graveyard disguised as a town. What I’m hoping for in this move isn’t a cure—it’s a kind of mercy.

And that alone matters.

Because at least in a new city, the sting of his absence won’t be pressed into my skin by the environment itself. I won’t have to see the same streets, the same restaurants, the same routes we took together. I won’t be surrounded by people who knew us—people who were part of the “us,” who watched us build something real, who stood close enough to feel the gravity of our shared life. In this place, even strangers feel like reminders. Even casual interactions carry the weight of memory.

In a new city, the reminders won’t be built into the landscape.

They won’t be woven into the air.

They won’t be lurking in every errand, every drive, every passing face.

I’m hoping that the absence of those reminders will give me even a small pocket of space—just enough room to breathe, to work, to keep myself distracted. Because here, there is no such space. There is no distraction powerful enough to drown out the grief. Out there, every moment is a trigger; every place is a monument to what was lost. It makes staying inside almost the only survivable option, even though staying inside is its own kind of devastation.

Here, being outside means being bombarded—by memories, by ghosts, by the phantom weight of “us.” And then I have to return home knowing I’m walking into a place that is even emptier. A place where the silence feels sharper, harsher, more absolute.

Home isn’t a home anymore.

It isn’t a refuge, or a sanctuary, or a nest of shared purpose and shared life.

It’s a tomb.

A storage unit for my body between attempts at enduring the day.

The loneliness inside these walls is suffocating, yes—but at least inside I am not being stabbed by constant reminders of what I lost. That’s the terrible equation of my current life:

Outside hurts too much to bear,

but inside hurts in a different, quieter, crushing way.

And yet here, the inside is sometimes easier, because at least I’m not being forced to relive the life I once had every time I step out the door. At least the ghosts don’t walk beside me here in the same way people do.

But even in a new place, even with the ghosts gone from the streets and the environment and the casual interactions… the deeper ache will remain. The tomb feeling will still be there, because home is no longer a place of union. It’s no longer the place where I returned each night to a shared purpose, a shared breath, a shared life. It’s no longer the hearth where two lives intertwined to form something larger than either one alone.

My purpose was bound to that union.

My renewal came from that connection.

Each morning, each night, each moment of my life was strengthened by the presence of someone I loved and belonged to.

That wellspring of meaning is gone.

And that is a different kind of emptiness—one that no address can change.

So yes, the new city may soften the constant sting.

It may remove the ghosts from my daily path.

It may give me just enough distance to breathe, to work, to function, to stay distractible.

And maybe that will be enough—not to heal, but simply to endure.

To exist without the constant assault of memory.

To live in a place where the world itself isn’t reminding me of the “us” that defined my life.

To have a home that, even if still empty, is not a mausoleum of shared memories.

I don’t expect healing. I’m not even reaching for hope.

What I’m reaching for is a little relief.

A little space.

A little distance from the ghosts that haunt every part of this place.

A mercy, however small.

Because the loss isn’t tied to this city.

And it won’t disappear anywhere else.

But maybe, somewhere else, the ache won’t be sharpened by every street, every face, every reminder of who I was when I was not alone. Maybe I’ll finally have just enough space between me and the grief to breathe in my own life, even if the air is thin.

That’s all I want.

Not rebirth.

Not restoration.

Just enough room to survive the hours of a life that no longer has its center.