People think grief begins when someone dies.
Mine began every time she walked away.
We fought. God,
we fought.
Even when she was alive, we were never peaceful. We
collided. We separated. We swore it was over, then found each other again
beneath the same midnight lights.
Every ending felt final. None of them lasted.
Everyone told me to let her go.
They saw the arguments, the slammed doors and the nights she
vanished without explanation. They saw me chasing her shadow through
rain-soaked streets.
What they never saw was the moment she returned.
She would appear at the end of the road with defiance in her
eyes. Neither of us would apologise. She would touch my face, and every
sensible thought inside me would drown.
She left fingerprints across my heart that no rain could
wash away.
Perhaps we were a beautiful disaster. Perhaps we were a
match thrown into gasoline. But in a world designed to make people feel
nothing, our madness felt honest.
I knew we were
bad at loving each other. I knew wanting someone wasn’t the same thing as
knowing how to keep them. But everything beyond us felt numb and rehearsed.
With her, even the pain was real.
There were nights when I tried to stay away.
I would tell
myself I was finished. I would sit alone and enjoy the silence for ten minutes,
maybe twenty.
Then the
silence would start to feel worse than the fight.
So I went back.
And sooner or later, she’d crash into me again.
Yours sincerely,
Jon Grinmaster
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