18 years, 18 tragedies. Part 2

And then the real funerals came — my girl best friend, gone too soon, the boy who made me laugh when I forgot how, and others who faded like smoke in my hands. Their names echo inside me like a prayer unanswered, their absences heavier than any wound. I count their deaths like beads on a rosary and whisper, almost in disbelief — and yet I’m not dead. And yet, somehow, I’m still here. Still standing in the ruins, still breathing through the ache, still wondering how many more tragedies a single heart can carry before it breaks. Inside me, something hollow grew teeth. It gnawed at the edges of who I was, until I became an echo wearing my own name. Eighteen years, eighteen tragedies — how many more before the last? How many more before the ghosts grow tired and leave me be? When will the ache unclench its fists, when will I finally be free? (2/2)