June First

by Jennifer Hartmann

And that’s the terrifying thing about keeping a secret that can rip your whole world apart. Sometimes you hold on too tight and spring a leak. Bits and pieces start to spill out, little by little, and before you know it all your ugly, shameful truths have been exposed.

“You were unsure which pain is worse: the shock of what happened, or the ache for what never will.”

I’ve never understood that question in the aftermath of grief and loss—especially when it comes from people who aren’t equipped to handle the truth. And if a lie is what they’re after, why bother asking?

I’d had practice with tragedy. I’d been there before, and I’d seen what the darkness could do. I’d lived inside it, and I’d crawled my way out with teeth, claws, and blood. I knew that darkness wasn’t permanent—just as the sun sets, the sun always rises. And so do we.

The quiet is where I overthink. The quiet is where I backslide. The quiet is where I second-guess everything.

Vilomah.

I don’t think they make a word for someone like me. The only word I can think of is…sad.