When I lost you, I remember feeling my throat turn to sandpaper. The red veins that ran vibrant through my body suddenly turned cold. I lay still in my bed, hearing my heartbeat speed up as if I had just ran a marathon. It felt like the cells of my body suddenly froze, and my brain couldn't catch up to my heart. When I lost you, I could not even process it because you were all I knew. And my body did not know how to live in a place that wasn't connected to you.
It felt like a dream. Except that I couldn't press the pause button and wake up. Maybe my brain was trying to protect me from my reality, but I felt numb all over; like my whole body was flooded with anesthesia. The scariest part was when the numbness died. And I felt everything. It didn't just come in waves, it came as a tsunami. And I was drowning for a long time. On some days, I don't even want to come up for air. I just want to sink deeper and deeper.
Time, I always thought, was an enemy, as something to try to push back. But I found that time is my only friend during the loss of you. After a while, it made me want to swim instead of sink. It made me want to actually live my life again, instead of being a person walking around with ghosts in his head. People say that time heals all wounds, but I disagree. Time won't ever heal a wound to make you forget that it's there or to forget that it happened. Time leaves the scar to remind you of what you faced and how you fought through it. It will remind you of the excruciating pain, but also how you grimaced through it and then felt the relief when the cast came off.
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