Grief doesn’t knock. It kicks the door in and leaves you standing in the wreckage of ordinary things that suddenly feel sacred and unbearable at the same time. You hover over boxes and bags, suspended between what was and what will never be again. Every object becomes a question, every decision a quiet betrayal. You tell yourself to be practical, to make space, to move on—but your fingers linger on the soft edge of a sweater, the ink of their handwriting, the curve of a mug they once held. Somewhere between the impulse to empty every shelf and the need to touch every memory, you understand: you’re not just sorting belongings. You’re choosing the fragments of a life that will carry you through the nights when their absence feels like too much air, too much si… Continues…
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