Never

A Story by lrigD

Losing a part of yourself.

You never knew it could hurt so much.

You read the books, heard the stories. You even imagined what it would be like.

But nothing compared to it actually happening. No book, no talk show and no person, no woman could prepare you for the pain you feel.

Oh, you know that you’re not the first. And you will not be the last - there are others out there, others who could probably relate to you. Those people you’ve read and heard about.

Now you think they were just playing it down, trying to appear brave.

Because it hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt. It hurts worse than your first broken heart, worse than when your parents died. Worse than those days you felt like nothing mattered, like the world could end and you would not even care.

Is there anybody out there who does care? You wonder, but your question is not answered. You lock yourself up in your apartment, cautiously avoiding that one closed door. That door behind which a paradise lies you will now never get to know. The painful reminder of how your dreams shattered in a matter of moments.

Maybe you should go out. Maybe you should see somebody, talk to somebody. Maybe you should write a book like so many others; maybe it actually helps.

But you don’t have the energy. You stay in bed all day, alternating between restless sleep and sessions of staring up at the ceiling; you distantly notice that the walls are starting to tear, but you cannot bring yourself to investigating it.

The whole block could collapse, and you would still lie here, staring up at the ceiling. Dead or alive would hardly make a difference now.

You just want her back. You cannot bring yourself to calling her it, even though technically she was not a she yet. You just want her back. You want to suffer swollen ankles, morning sickness and mood swings. You want it so much it hurts.

But now you will never have the chance again.