I wouldn’t be much of a man if I did not reach out to you. If it’s any consolation, she’s gone now, nowhere near our sight. The pain will vanish as fast as she did, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I know it hurts. I know it feels like every obstacle has a conscience with only one goal: to destroy us. The weight of our cross outweighs everyone’s.
Can’t lie to you, man. The bruises on your wrists, they’ll get darker. The scars, deeper. The tears, heavier and the nights will seem endless. Your battle to outrun the morning as fast as the night bestrides upon you will be fruitless. The sunny days will seem short and the rainy slum will engulf your life. Whenever it seems like it’ll go right, it won’t. However, I am living, breathing evidence that you will get through this. It’s been 697 days, 5 hours, 34 minutes and 28 seconds since our last panic attack. Your bludgeoned mind is incapable of conceiving the blessings that will dismantle the obstacles in your way.
Without you there is no me.