This whole thing is weird.
Fear after fear. Disappointment after grief. And underneath it all—this feeling of being stuck. Low energy. Apathy. Just… existing. Not living.
Those I trusted most cut my heart into a million tiny pieces. They never appreciated my openness. My deep love.
Why?
And why is it always the ones closest to you?
I hate this.
I don’t even know why I feel this way anymore.
I can’t talk.
I respond when I have to, not when I want to. I never initiate conversations unless I absolutely must.
What I want—what I really want—is to draw.
To be with my grandad.
He always made me feel safe. He never asked for anything, never judged. He just let me be. Quiet. Enough.
We did things together. Quiet things.
We fished.
We picked peaches.
Cut shamrock.
Planted and picked strawberries.
We marinated tiny fish and squeezed grape juice barefoot in a giant aluminium box while wearing his massive hunting boots—reserved only for wine-making season.
His wine was cloudy.
Twenty giant flasks—almost 100 litres each.
It lasted him for a few years.
And here I am now, crying over something I know I’ll never have again. Not ever.
The last time I saw him with his eyes open, I brought a book to the hospital. I thought it might cheer him up. I started reading aloud.
But he interrupted me.
“Dice, stop.”
“Don’t you like it, Grandad?”
“I want to sit with you.”
That was the last time we sat together. Just him and I, the way we used to.
My heart sank. I could feel the creaking silence of goodbye.
He wanted so badly to live. But his body had stopped listening.
He lay still, in pain, eyes closed, taking each second as it came.
I didn’t know then that I’d never see him stand again.