She sits on the couch in complete darkness, hugging a worn pillow so tightly her fingers go numb. The silence is sharp and she imagines she can actually hear the tears as they escape despite her best effort. She flinches at the wetness and vows to imprison her emotions more tightly; even as she feels the pressure building in her chest, even as breathing becomes more difficult because of the force of her feelings. She knows it’s a lost cause.
She’s been misunderstood most of her life. They assume that she doesn’t feel anything because she’s so shut down, when really she shuts down because she feels too much, way too much, and she’s learned the hard way that showing emotion is the quickest way to be preyed on and picked clean of any sense of self.
So she sits alone in cold darkness and soothes herself with worn pillows and promises that tomorrow will be better, oh yes it will, and that it’s safe to allow this moment of grief for what was — and what will never be. Some things can’t be fixed, no matter how hard she begs, bargains or wishes for things to be different. She can’t glue herself back together when chunks of her innocence were eaten by soul cannibals who only wanted to make her bleed.
Yes, it’s better to be alone, she whispers to herself. And resolutely ignores the fact that she aches for it to be otherwise.