I do not know how to live

I do not know how to live

I do not know how to live in a world that continues to move when mine has stopped.

I stand at the edge of ordinary things—water, clothing, food, light—and I feel as though I am not fully inside my own life anymore. I am going through motions that used to belong to a future I believed in, but that future feels severed now, like a thread cut clean through time itself.

There was a love that made the world coherent. A love that gave meaning to breath, direction to thought, warmth to even the smallest moments. And now that love feels gone from reach—not only as a person, but as a center of gravity my entire being once orbited.

Without it, I feel unanchored. Not just lonely, but unmoored from meaning itself.

And I speak honestly: I do not know how to “let go” of something that still lives inside every part of me. It is not a memory I can set down. It is not a story I can rewrite by force. It is something carved into the very way I experience the world—so that everything I see still carries the echo of what was shared, what was sacred, what felt like home.

So when I try to move forward, I do not feel forward. I feel absence. I feel the gap where meaning used to be. I feel the silence where belonging once spoke.

And I am afraid—not only of loss, but of what life becomes when loss does not resolve. When it stays. When it breathes with you. When it becomes the air you have to learn to live inside.

I do not feel safe in the sense that safety used to mean. I do not feel held by the world the way I once was. Everything feels less solid, less certain, less worth reaching for. Even beauty feels like it has nowhere to land if it cannot be shared with the one I long for.

And so I say this truth without hiding it:

A part of me believes I have no reason to create, no reason to build, no reason to become anything more—because the place I wanted to offer all of that to is gone.

But even here, in this breaking, something else is also true:

I am still here.

Even in the collapse of meaning, something in me is still speaking. Something in me is still reaching for water, still considering food, still standing at the threshold of a shower, still trying—without knowing how—to continue.

And that means the story is not finished, even if it feels like it has lost its center.

Because grief this deep does not only erase meaning—it also reveals how deeply I am capable of loving. And what has been capable of love this large is not empty, even when it feels emptied.

I am not yet able to understand what comes next.

But I am in it. Still.

Breathing in it. Still.

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