The room was still, quiet in that way that makes you aware of every sound—the creak of the floorboards, the soft hum of the fridge, the tapping of a distant keyboard. She sat on the couch, staring at the blank wall in front of her. The emptiness around her wasn’t the kind that could be filled with noise or distractions. It was the kind of silence that pulls you inward, forcing you to face things you’ve been ignoring.
She hadn’t planned to cry today. It wasn’t on the list. But grief had a way of sneaking up, like it always did. She’d spent the last few months running, not away from anything specific, but from everything. Work, family, the endless little tasks that piled up until they suffocated her. She was so busy, she never noticed the space inside her had been shrinking, until it was barely enough to breathe.
And then it hit. Not the grief itself—not yet—but the realization that she’d been too busy to make room for it. She couldn’t even pinpoint exactly what she was mourning. It wasn’t a single thing, but a thousand little moments, lost opportunities, and promises she hadn’t kept—to herself, mostly. But the grief, when it came, wasn’t kind. It didn’t tap her gently on the shoulder, asking for permission. It demanded space, and she had none left.
Her mind raced, jumping from one unfinished task to the next. She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t feel anything. The weight of what was missing pressed down on her, but there was nowhere to put it. No place to hold it. She needed to do something. Fix something. Anything. So she checked her phone, scrolling aimlessly through messages, photos, work emails, pretending to care. But nothing held her attention. Nothing filled the silence.
She could hear the clock ticking now. Tick, tick, tick. Time slipping away. She grabbed a blanket, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes, wishing it would go away. Maybe if she stayed like this long enough, the grief would forget about her.
But grief doesn’t forget. It waits.
The next day, after a few more distractions, she tried again. This time, she didn’t push it away. Instead, she looked at the empty space she had inside—space she hadn’t filled with anything real. Maybe that was the problem. She’d been running on fumes, filling herself up with half-thoughts and rushed decisions, but never with things that actually mattered.
And that’s when it clicked. You can’t grieve what you don’t have room for.
She got up, opened the window, and let the air in—deep, steady breaths. She didn’t need to fix everything right now. She just needed to make room for the grief to come in, for the space to be filled. Not with more distractions or tasks, but with time for herself. Time to sit, to feel the loss, and to finally let it be.
Grief, she realized, needed a home. She just had to make the space for it.
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