I don’t really know how to say this out loud.

So I wrote it instead.

April came softly,

like it always does:

unannounced, ordinary,

carrying days that looked like any other.

But it stayed too long in my chest.

It took,

and then it took again.

The first loss echoed—

sharp, unfamiliar,

something I tried to understand

before it settled.

But the second…

the second didn’t echo.

It sank.

It left a silence that doesn’t move,

a kind that sits beside me

even when I’m not thinking about it.

There are too many memories—

they don’t come one by one,

they arrive all at once,

crowding the quiet I’m trying to keep.

And when I try to speak,

nothing comes out the way it should.

So I write—

not because I have the right words,

but because they’re the only ones

that stay long enough to be felt.

Some people leave gently.

Some leave loudly.

And some…

leave a space that nothing knows how to fill.

April didn’t ask.

It just took.

And I’m still here,

writing what I can’t say,

trying to understand

what remains.