Grief doesn’t always come in storms. Sometimes it arrives like lukewarm tea and stays on your table. Not a flood, not a scream, just a dull presence. I wake up, and it’s already there. I go to bed, it hasn’t moved. It doesn’t ask to be heard, it doesn’t burn my chest. It just keeps sitting there.
There are no breakdowns, no gasps into a towel. Just that slight burning in the eyes that never goes away. Like your body’s trying to mourn on low battery.
You stop thinking “I miss him”. Because the words sound like an old recording. Even remembering becomes exhausting. Silence feels noisy, crying feels performative.
People ask, “Are you okay?” And the truth is, you’re not broken enough to alarm anyone. Just quiet enough to disappear.
No one notices grief when it’s dry, when it doesn’t scream, when it just stares back at you through the bathroom mirror while you brush your teeth and realize you haven’t felt anything in three weeks.
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And sometimes, I’m Living Dead with grief.
