I don’t think people understand what it means to lose the person who taught you how to breathe. Not in a poetic way. In a literal, body-memory way. You were the first rhythm my chest learned. In. Out. Safe. And when you died, my body kept going but the instructions disappeared.
I never really processed it. Not because I didn’t feel it, but because I learned fast that grief is something you keep under control. You say it’s “not that bad.” You say it often enough that people stop asking. Pretending didn’t make it lighter. It just buried it deeper, where it could rot quietly.
I was a kid and somehow it became my job to hold everyone together. I stood there watching adults fall apart and acted like it made sense. Like I wasn’t the one who lost the ground under their feet. I learned to be useful instead of honest. Strong instead of allowed to break. I carried people with hands that were never meant to carry anything that heavy.
I never put that weight down.
Now I feel responsible for everyone being okay, all the time. If someone isn’t, my chest tightens like I failed an invisible test. I don’t let myself want things anymore because wanting feels selfish. Everything good feels temporary, borrowed, like it could be taken away the second I relax.
Talking about how I feel makes me feel guilty. Like I’m taking up space I didn’t earn. Like my pain is an inconvenience. Like I should be quieter, more grateful, more over it by now.
But the night never listens.
I still see you. Your body. Too still. Wrong in a way my brain can’t correct. That image comes back every night, sharp and exact, like my mind refuses to let it fade. It doesn’t knock. It just appears. Over and over. Proof that it happened.
People say memories soften. This one doesn’t. It waits.
Sometimes I think part of me stopped breathing when you did. The rest of me has just been doing it manually ever since. Counting air. Forcing it in and out. Functioning. Calling it living because I don’t know what else to call survival.
I didn’t lose you once.
I lose you every night.
And every morning I wake up and pretend I didn’t.
Jan 26
Jan 26, 2026 at 7:54 PM UTC
I don’t think people understand what it means to lose the person who taught you how to breathe. Not in a poetic way. In a literal, body-memory way. You were the first rhythm my chest learned. In. Out. Safe. And when you died, my body kept going but the instructions disappeared.
I never really processed it. Not because I didn’t feel it, but because I learned fast that grief is something you keep under control. You say it’s “not that bad.” You say it often enough that people stop asking. Pretending didn’t make it lighter. It just buried it deeper, where it could rot quietly.
I was a kid and somehow it became my job to hold everyone together. I stood there watching adults fall apart and acted like it made sense. Like I wasn’t the one who lost the ground under their feet. I learned to be useful instead of honest. Strong instead of allowed to break. I carried people with hands that were never meant to carry anything that heavy.
I never put that weight down.
Now I feel responsible for everyone being okay, all the time. If someone isn’t, my chest tightens like I failed an invisible test. I don’t let myself want things anymore because wanting feels selfish. Everything good feels temporary, borrowed, like it could be taken away the second I relax.
Talking about how I feel makes me feel guilty. Like I’m taking up space I didn’t earn. Like my pain is an inconvenience. Like I should be quieter, more grateful, more over it by now.
But the night never listens.
I still see you. Your body. Too still. Wrong in a way my brain can’t correct. That image comes back every night, sharp and exact, like my mind refuses to let it fade. It doesn’t knock. It just appears. Over and over. Proof that it happened.
People say memories soften. This one doesn’t. It waits.
Sometimes I think part of me stopped breathing when you did. The rest of me has just been doing it manually ever since. Counting air. Forcing it in and out. Functioning. Calling it living because I don’t know what else to call survival.
I didn’t lose you once.
I lose you every night.
And every morning I wake up and pretend I didn’t.