The soft science of surviving sorrow.

The skin tastes like salt.

You don’t.

Not right away. 

Not neatly. 

Not like they told you in books that end well.

You carry it. 

At first, like a scream in your chest.

Then, like a silence that follows you everywhere.

And eventually, like a scar that doesn’t hurt — but remembers.

—

You breathe through it.

One shallow breath at a time.

You eat.

Even when it tastes like ash.

You sleep. Or you try.

You cry — and when the tears stop, you still feel salt on your skin.

—

You stop pretending it didn’t matter.

You stop calling it a lesson too soon.

You let it break you — gently.

So that something softer can survive.

—

You write.

You walk.

You lie on the floor and let it rise like a wave.

You whisper to yourself:

“This hurts. And I’m still here.” “This hurts. And I’m still here.”

And one day,

you’ll look at someone else in pain —

and you won’t look away.

Because you’ll know.

And that knowing —

that’s where the healing begins.