That booming noise inside your brain. The fog that you’re looking through, trying to see clearly, but can’t. The silence you hear in the night, when your mind takes full advantage of your vulnerable position and torments you with thoughts of better times.
It’s not the type of sadness that makes you cry all the time. It’s not the type of sadness you feel at the end of Titanic. It’s the type of sadness that consumes your body, leaving you unable to function or keep a solid thought. It makes you tired, yet you can’t sleep. Your aching sadness follows you into your dreams.
You often wonder why it’s even called heartbreak, because in actuality, it’s every part of your body that is broken. Those butterflies that once danced in your stomach now feel like they are being picked off, one-by-one, by a crazed, psychopathic Cupid.
It’s the type of feeling that isn’t as easily expressed on the outside as it is on the inside. You hear the screams of your sadness without even uttering a word. It’s the sound of snow quietly falling but the feeling of a bomb exploding. It’s hurt that only you can hear.
You wake up in the morning to shake your pillow case, hoping that the sweet dreams and memories of what was once the happiest time in your life would come tumbling out.
But they don’t. And finally you realize: you may have lost someone who didn’t love you, but they lost someone who truly loved them.