The hardest day of mourning isn't the funeral. And it's not the birthday of someone who's no longer here. It's not the anniversary, it's not the set date, it's not the sharp, long-awaited sting. The hardest day is the one that feels like any other day. It's the ordinary moment when something beautiful happens in our lives... and suddenly you realize you can no longer share it with that person. It's the joy that hurts, because within it lies the shadow of absence. Or it's the day you're suffering, and yearn for those familiar arms, that voice that always knew how to calm the storm within you. The hardest day is a simple Sunday. Silence that screams. Time that drags on, leaving only emptiness behind. It's a day without any event—but full of unbearable longing.
And even within this pain, there's a fragile kind of light. Because if we cry, it means we loved. And everything we lost was real. And memory—it's proof that love doesn't disappear. It simply changes shape. What is mourning if not love that endures?