I don't even know what I'm doing here, typing this out at God-knows-what-o'clock, but I just… I need to put it somewhere that isn't rattling around in my own head, because it feels like it's going to crack me open from the inside out. Like tonight, I was just trying to unwind, right? Scrolling through some dumb streaming service, picking something mindless because my brain feels like a sponge that's been wrung out all day, trying to keep up with work and then pretending everything's fine when I meet up with friends, forcing myself to smile at their endless stories about dating apps and apartment hunting and all the things that just feel so incredibly small now. So I picked this stupid sitcom, some brightly lit thing with a laugh track that always felt fake even before… everything. And I was just staring at the screen, not really watching, just letting the noise wash over me, and then this character said something ridiculous, truly idiotic, and I just… I laughed. Out loud. A real, honest-to-God laugh, not one of those polite exhales I’ve been practicing for the last three months, but a genuine, gut-deep laugh that actually made my stomach hurt a little. And the second it happened, it was like someone flipped a switch, like a bucket of ice water got dumped over my head and all the air just got sucked out of the room. My heart just started POUNDING, this awful, sickening rhythm against my ribs, and all I could think was, *how could I?* How could I sit here, in this apartment that still smells faintly of her perfume even after all this time, in this city that just keeps moving relentlessly forward, and laugh at some inconsequential piece of television? It’s only been three months, for crying out loud. Three months. That’s barely any time at all, practically yesterday in the grand scheme of things, and I’m already… what? Forgetting? Moving on? It feels so unbelievably wrong, like a betrayal that cuts deeper than anything I could have imagined. I was supposed to be grieving, I *am* grieving, but then there’s this moment of pure, unadulterated joy, and it just throws everything off kilter, makes me question every single feeling I've had since she died. I hate it. I hate myself for it. For feeling anything other than this constant ache, this dull throb that reminds me every single second of what I've lost. I should be devastated, inconsolable, not giggling at some half-baked joke about a talking dog or whatever the hell it was. What kind of person am I, really? Am I just some superficial idiot who can just bounce back from something like this? It’s not fair, it’s not right, and I feel this boiling rage building inside me – at the show, at myself, at the world for just… continuing. Like it expects me to just fall in line, to pick myself up and dust myself off and pretend like this gaping wound isn't still festering. I don’t know what to do with this feeling, this sudden, sharp jab of happiness that just makes everything else feel so much worse. It’s like I’m broken in a new way now, a way I didn't even know was possible, and I just want to scream until my throat is raw and maybe that’ll just… reset everything.