When the pain calls, pretend you’re in a meeting, changing the world or saving someone else. Pretend to be doing anything other than waiting to dive pain-first into a pool of your emotions. You do not have the time. To lean into something with the right incisions to leave you open, aching, alive—but open all the same. You need a task that immediately says, “You’re too busy for this.” Too busy to wipe tears, fall apart, lean into the reckless belonging of an explosion.
You do not want that kind of healing.
You want to do it strong. You want to see when the pain touches, make it formidable—so it can never go there again.
But not yet.
You’re too busy for this. Too busy to lift from the landmine. You know you. You know the radius will be a thing of arenas. So you want to be sure, before you shift your weight, that there is time, there is room, there is no one in sight, and you’ve found somewhere to contain the explosion.
You put your phone face down.
You tell yourself the meeting ran long.
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