I hated everyone and it’s not like that was me; I wasn’t even halfway there, but then he died and after the first part, the part that’s as close to actual pain like getting your throat ripped out by dirty fingers as you can get, then came hate.

Even if you only have, what, twelve people, in your life? You can’t have a healthy conversation about your grief twelve times over. You can’t open up to twelve different people, let them see your struggling heart, it’s hard enough with one. I’d go for lunch and I’d see someone I liked or loved maybe, at one point; an old schoolfriend, a second cousin, a neighbour I got on so well with, we’ve shared a hundred cups of tea and I would hate them with all I had left and it was a lot, it surprised me. There are two choices, I know, for them - they asked me how I was and how it was and how I was doing or they said nothing - there is no other option„ I get that. But I hated the ones who brought it up, picking away at my skin like they had a right to see under it and I hated the ones who didn’t say a word. How fucking dare you, I wanted to say, how dare you stand there and act like nothing’s wrong, like we’re the same people, like my chest hasn’t caved in and the world isn’t stupid now, like it isn’t some sick, three legged animal stuck turning in circles.