It’s like somebody died, but you’re the only one who knows they died because this thing that looks like their body is still alive–only it’s not them, because they are dead–but no one else can tell the zombie from the real thing. In fact, it looks so close to the real thing that it could almost fool you if you didn’t already know the truth, if you hadn’t already grieved it.
And you’re curious how no one else sees this: this thing of ash and dust in masquerade. Doesn’t anyone else smell the smoke? Has no one else caught their reflection in a mirror?
Why must this be something that only you know?
It’s late and I’m running out of coherence but there should be a word for how that feels.
It’s what I said before–but it’s not.
It’s like the person is a multicolor ink pen. Everyone writes with it; everyone loves it. You used to write with it and you used to love it. Only one day your ink, unexpectedly, ran out. Only your ink. So no one else realizes because no one else used that one except for you. They didn’t see it the way you did and now, no one even makes that kind of ink anymore so it will never exist again.
They keep writing like they always have while you are left with the wasted potential of a half-blank page.