Through the Fog

Category: grief

  • The Things That Stay

    Some things leave.

    People.

    Promises.

    Versions of yourself

    you thought would last forever.

    They slip away quietly,

    without asking permission,

    without caring

    how badly you wanted them to stay.

    I used to chase them.

    Used to run after endings

    like I could change their minds,

    like enough love,

    enough effort,

    enough pain

    could make something remain.

    But loss

    has never listened to bargaining.

    It takes what it takes.

    And eventually

    you get tired

    of chasing ghosts

    through doors

    that only open one way.

    So you stop.

    Not because it hurts less.

    Because you finally understand

    that some things

    aren’t meant to be carried forever.

    Still—

    not everything leaves.

    The lessons stay.

    The scars.

    The songs that remind you

    of who you were.

    The strength you never wanted

    but somehow earned.

    And maybe

    that’s the strange gift of surviving—

    realizing that while life

    takes more than its share,

    it leaves something behind too.

    A wiser heart.

    A deeper soul.

    A quieter understanding

    of what truly matters.

    So let the leaving happen.

    Let the endings end.

    Trust that what belongs to you

    isn’t always the thing that stays—

    sometimes it’s the person

    you become

    after it’s gone.

  • If You Were Dead or Still Alive

    If you were dead

    I think I’d know how to grieve you.

    There’d be an ending—

    a line I could point to

    and say

    that’s where you stopped existing

    in my world.

    I’d cry

    in ways that made sense.

    I’d miss you

    in ways people understand.

    There would be flowers.

    Silence.

    A kind of permission

    to let you go.

    But you’re not dead.

    You’re somewhere—

    breathing,

    living a life

    that doesn’t include me.

    And that’s the part

    no one prepares you for.

    How do you mourn

    someone who still wakes up?

    Who still laughs,

    still says your name maybe—

    just not the way they used to?

    You exist

    just far enough away

    to feel unreachable,

    just close enough

    to keep hurting.

    There’s no ceremony

    for this kind of loss.

    No clear ending.

    No final goodbye.

    Just the slow, quiet ache

    of learning

    that someone can be alive

    and still be gone.

  • When I Dream

    When I dream,

    all I see is your face—

    not the version I tell the world about,

    but the one I still can’t look at

    without something in me breaking.

    My mind spills the truth at night,

    because sleep is the only place

    I don’t get to lie.

    The pain shows up unmasked,

    unfiltered,

    unapologetic—

    like it’s been waiting for the silence.

    But when I wake,

    I put the armor back on.

    I cover up how I feel

    with practiced smiles

    and sentences I don’t believe.

    People ask how I’m doing,

    and I give them the safe answer,

    the one that keeps the room comfortable.

    Nobody wants to hear

    that I still bleed in dreams.

    Nobody wants the version of me

    that doesn’t heal neatly.

    So I swallow it.

    The grief.

    The guilt.

    The nights that still replay like a warning.

    I only tell the truth in sleep—

    because the daylight demands performance,

    and I’ve gotten good at pretending

    I’m not still haunted.