Jia Zhenia

I woke with a weight in my chest,
a quiet, pressing ache.

I stared at the skylight,
watched raindrops gather
before falling—
soft taps against the glass
like questions
I didn’t want to answer.

I did not move.

Maybe it was the restless night,
the turning, the searching
for a place to land—
or maybe
I was held still
by something heavier than sleep.

Pain has a way of doing that—
not loud, not urgent,
just enough
to keep you where you are.

What is the meaning of life
when it feels like this?

I thought I knew once.
Thought if I held things carefully,
lived them gently,
life would unfold
into something I could understand.

But life shifts—
quietly, without warning—
placing new weight into your hands—
asking,
can you carry this too?

I have known heartbreak—
the kind that leaves an empty space,
like a missing limb
you learn to live without.

But this—

this feels like breaking
from the inside out.

What kind of love is this
that fractures me when you are not around?

Why does some love ache
only when it leaves,
while another
shakes my whole being,
as if life loosens its grip without you?

I lie here,
between the rain
and the heaviness in my chest,
listening—

Not for answers,
but for something softer,
something that might say

you don’t have to understand
this moment
to survive it.

And so I stay—
held between
what hurts
and what falls—

waiting
for one of them
to let go first.