The Unhealing Wound of a Broken Heart
Heartbreak isn’t just pain—it’s an abyss. A void that swallows you whole, leaving behind nothing but a husk of who you once were. Some wounds close with time, while others remain open, festering, consuming. These are the ones you don’t recover from. You learn to survive them, to coexist with the emptiness, but you never truly live again.
I know this because I am living it.
The moment I realized my heart was truly broken was the moment I let the truth in. I stopped running, stopped pretending, and faced the unbearable reality. And in that moment, my world crumbled. My dreams dissolved. Time stopped. There was no moving forward, no picking up the pieces—only existing in the wreckage.
I have loved since then. Or at least, I have tried. But love, real love, the kind that fills your soul and makes life worth living, that was taken from me. And because my heart still belongs to the one who shattered it, I can never fully give it to another. It’s unfair, I know. But it’s the truth.
If I could ask them anything, it wouldn’t be about moving on or healing. It wouldn’t be about finding closure. It would be the same questions that echo in my mind every night: Why? Why did they lie? Why did they leave? Why wasn’t I enough? Why did they have to break me—not once, but twice? And despite all of it, why do I still love them?
I live in the past. I float through the present. I ignore the future. Time doesn’t heal all wounds—it only deepens the void. Drugs help dull the pain, but they don’t erase it. Nothing does. Because happiness like that, love like that, doesn’t come twice in a lifetime. And when it’s gone, you’re left chasing ghosts.
I’ve learned one thing from all of this: life isn’t worth living, and death isn’t worth fearing.
So I exist. I smoke. I survive. But I don’t live. Not really.
And maybe, just maybe, some hearts were never meant to heal.