I deeply care about you, but am tired

Every time we sit down,
the air changes.

Not because I don’t want to listen,
but because I already know
where the conversation will go.

It begins softly.
Then slowly,
it returns
to the day everything was taken from you.

I watch your face when you speak.
It tightens in places you pretend are fine.
Your eyes travel somewhere far,
somewhere I cannot follow.

And I stay.

Because that’s what friends do.
They stay.

But staying is not always easy.

There are days I go home heavy.
Not annoyed.
Not angry.
Just full of something that isn’t mine.

Your sorrow sits on my chest
long after we part ways.
And I lie awake wondering
if I am doing enough
or if I am slowly disappearing
inside your unfinished grief.

I worry about you.

I worry that you built a small room
inside your heart
where the past keeps playing
like an old song on repeat.

I worry that you visit that room
more than you visit your own future.

But I also notice something else.

You are still here.
You wake up.
You try.
You laugh sometimes.
You dream, even if quietly.

So maybe you are not broken.
Maybe you are just carrying something
that was too heavy
for the age you were
when it happened.

And I am learning something too.

I can care deeply
without becoming your rescue plan.

I can listen
without losing myself.

I can say, gently,
“Let’s talk about who you are becoming.”
Not to silence your pain,
but to remind you
that your life did not end
with the people you lost.

I am your friend.

I will walk beside you.
But I cannot live in yesterday with you.

And that is not selfish.
It is healthy.

Because love should support,
not suffocate.

And I want us both
to breathe.

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The One Who Lost, “This Is Why I Speak” by walking shadow