skill: heartbroken 1/5

when wren wakes this morning, it's her mother's sweet citrus scent that she thinks of first thing. her rich laughter, how it would echo like birdsong and could put a smile on the face of anyone. the warmth of her belly when she pressed her face into her ribs; her heartbeat, the way it would patter softly in her ears.

when she opens her eyes, she's alone, and her chest doesn't feel any lighter.

it's not as bad as it was in the first few weeks, all things considered. the nightmares, the vomiting, the staring off into space. but that same heaviness is still there. she swallows it all down during the day for as long as she can until it eats her alive in the night — fits of sobbing, miserable, childish tears that no one else is around to hear nor soothe. last night was no different. her head is still reeling from it.

how do you move on? why does the world keep spinning when you don't want it to?

for a long while, she sits in silence, staring at the rustling trees and listening to the cold rush of the morning wind. eventually, when she finds the strength, she gets up and stretches her legs, because she can think of little else to do other than to survive another day.