Over these last few months since the accident, the sadness didn’t stay where I thought it would. It isn’t just in my heart.

It lives in my skin. In my bones. In the aching muscles of my jaw from clenching too tightly for too long.

It’s physical.

The trembling comes in waves. First my hands, then my legs. Sometimes I stand in the kitchen, holding a cup I don’t remember reaching for, and my body feels like a stranger.

Nausea is always near. Some days I eat just to say I did, but by the second bite, exhaustion wins.

Other days, I’m just tired. A deep, unforgiving tiredness that sinks into my spine and makes the smallest tasks feel like mountains.

Sleep doesn’t soothe, and most nights I chase it like a ghost. When it finally finds me, it drags nightmares behind it I can still feel in the pit of my stomach the next day.

I space out. Start a sentence and drift off before finishing it. Because sometimes words feel too heavy. Where even responding to a simple text message feels like dragging a stone uphill.

So I vanish for a little while. Not from the world itself, but from the living in it.

And I think… I think I need that silence. That folding inward.

I guess I’m letting my body tell its story. Even when it feels like the world is starting to forget, I am still remembering.