Everyone keeps telling me how strong I am. I’m not my heart is utterly broken. But no matter how much I want to crawl in bed and cry and never come out, I can’t. I have to keep going, at least most of the time.
It’s amazing how people judge. Some people see, to think I should be “over it,” while others seem to thing that I’m not sad enough. I’m not sure how they know. They see me, out with Owen, or at the store, and they think that means I’m fine. They don’t see that I think of you every moment of every day. How every interaction, every thought, everything that is said is through the filter of losing you. “Don’t touch the baby, it should be Noah.” “Don’t look at the pregnant lady, her baby is the same age Noah should be.” “How fucking-dare she say she can’t think of anything to be grateful for? Doesn’t she see me here? Me without my baby, and her with hers?”
They don’t see me leave the room to cry, avert my eyes, hold your necklace so tight it leaves marks. They say all the wrong things, and they think they know. No one knows how much I love you, think about you, miss you. With every second, with every breath.