Nouveauté
Beautifully Broken: How Heartbreak Unlocked the Strongest Version of Me
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- FormatePub
- ISBN8231677740
- EAN9798231677740
- Date de parution07/06/2025
- Protection num.pas de protection
- Infos supplémentairesepub
- ÉditeurWalzone Press
Résumé
The kind of pain that doesn't leave bruises still destroys you. That's the part nobody tells you. You'll sit in a bathroom with the lights off because even the mirror has become too loud. You'll answer, "I'm fine, " while you're bleeding out in slow motion. You'll keep showing up to work, smiling like you haven't just buried the girl you used to be. Grief doesn't always look like black clothes and tears.
Sometimes, it looks like pretending to live when something inside you is already dead. He left. Or maybe you left him, but it still felt like abandonment. The quiet after a storm is never peace - it's shock. You stare at your phone, knowing he won't text. You check it anyway, every five minutes like maybe the screen will change its mind. You delete his number. You memorize it first. You block him on Instagram but check it through a friend's account just to see if he looks sad, too.
He doesn't. He never does. And that's where the hate comes in. Not the loud, screaming hate you can wrap your arms around - no. It's the soft kind that whispers you weren't enough. That you were replaceable. That maybe if you were quieter, prettier, more forgiving, less emotional, he would have stayed. You turn that hate inward until you can't recognize your own reflection anymore. You tell yourself to get over it, but grief has no deadline.
Your healing isn't Amazon Prime. You talk to God. Not the poetic version of prayer that ends in amen. The kind where you curse through tears and ask why He let you love someone who never planned to love you back. You don't want scripture. You want answers. You want to know if the pain is punishment or part of the plan. You want to know if you'll ever laugh again and mean it. And then the silence answers.
Not instantly. Not beautifully. But it speaks. In the way your hands stop shaking when you block him for real. In the way you breathe deeper when you choose not to check his page. In the moment you delete the screenshots and realize you remember the pain more than the love. The silence becomes sacred.
Sometimes, it looks like pretending to live when something inside you is already dead. He left. Or maybe you left him, but it still felt like abandonment. The quiet after a storm is never peace - it's shock. You stare at your phone, knowing he won't text. You check it anyway, every five minutes like maybe the screen will change its mind. You delete his number. You memorize it first. You block him on Instagram but check it through a friend's account just to see if he looks sad, too.
He doesn't. He never does. And that's where the hate comes in. Not the loud, screaming hate you can wrap your arms around - no. It's the soft kind that whispers you weren't enough. That you were replaceable. That maybe if you were quieter, prettier, more forgiving, less emotional, he would have stayed. You turn that hate inward until you can't recognize your own reflection anymore. You tell yourself to get over it, but grief has no deadline.
Your healing isn't Amazon Prime. You talk to God. Not the poetic version of prayer that ends in amen. The kind where you curse through tears and ask why He let you love someone who never planned to love you back. You don't want scripture. You want answers. You want to know if the pain is punishment or part of the plan. You want to know if you'll ever laugh again and mean it. And then the silence answers.
Not instantly. Not beautifully. But it speaks. In the way your hands stop shaking when you block him for real. In the way you breathe deeper when you choose not to check his page. In the moment you delete the screenshots and realize you remember the pain more than the love. The silence becomes sacred.
The kind of pain that doesn't leave bruises still destroys you. That's the part nobody tells you. You'll sit in a bathroom with the lights off because even the mirror has become too loud. You'll answer, "I'm fine, " while you're bleeding out in slow motion. You'll keep showing up to work, smiling like you haven't just buried the girl you used to be. Grief doesn't always look like black clothes and tears.
Sometimes, it looks like pretending to live when something inside you is already dead. He left. Or maybe you left him, but it still felt like abandonment. The quiet after a storm is never peace - it's shock. You stare at your phone, knowing he won't text. You check it anyway, every five minutes like maybe the screen will change its mind. You delete his number. You memorize it first. You block him on Instagram but check it through a friend's account just to see if he looks sad, too.
He doesn't. He never does. And that's where the hate comes in. Not the loud, screaming hate you can wrap your arms around - no. It's the soft kind that whispers you weren't enough. That you were replaceable. That maybe if you were quieter, prettier, more forgiving, less emotional, he would have stayed. You turn that hate inward until you can't recognize your own reflection anymore. You tell yourself to get over it, but grief has no deadline.
Your healing isn't Amazon Prime. You talk to God. Not the poetic version of prayer that ends in amen. The kind where you curse through tears and ask why He let you love someone who never planned to love you back. You don't want scripture. You want answers. You want to know if the pain is punishment or part of the plan. You want to know if you'll ever laugh again and mean it. And then the silence answers.
Not instantly. Not beautifully. But it speaks. In the way your hands stop shaking when you block him for real. In the way you breathe deeper when you choose not to check his page. In the moment you delete the screenshots and realize you remember the pain more than the love. The silence becomes sacred.
Sometimes, it looks like pretending to live when something inside you is already dead. He left. Or maybe you left him, but it still felt like abandonment. The quiet after a storm is never peace - it's shock. You stare at your phone, knowing he won't text. You check it anyway, every five minutes like maybe the screen will change its mind. You delete his number. You memorize it first. You block him on Instagram but check it through a friend's account just to see if he looks sad, too.
He doesn't. He never does. And that's where the hate comes in. Not the loud, screaming hate you can wrap your arms around - no. It's the soft kind that whispers you weren't enough. That you were replaceable. That maybe if you were quieter, prettier, more forgiving, less emotional, he would have stayed. You turn that hate inward until you can't recognize your own reflection anymore. You tell yourself to get over it, but grief has no deadline.
Your healing isn't Amazon Prime. You talk to God. Not the poetic version of prayer that ends in amen. The kind where you curse through tears and ask why He let you love someone who never planned to love you back. You don't want scripture. You want answers. You want to know if the pain is punishment or part of the plan. You want to know if you'll ever laugh again and mean it. And then the silence answers.
Not instantly. Not beautifully. But it speaks. In the way your hands stop shaking when you block him for real. In the way you breathe deeper when you choose not to check his page. In the moment you delete the screenshots and realize you remember the pain more than the love. The silence becomes sacred.
