Yet This

He comes in and smiles at me. He knows I am pained.

He is his usual sarcastic, pragmatic self and tries to make me see this as a good thing. And in this moment, I pray and sorely wish to believe he's right. Make him be right. I smile at him from across the table. He so wants to make me un-sad. He so wants to see me happy.

Despite his attempts, I have gone deep down to a place where no one can reach for me.

I laugh, and I can breathe. But I know I am empty. I don't know if he can see it. That I am a vessel filled with nothingness. I am not. I live not.

I am broken. An abyss that cannot even hold a void of nothing.

He leaves soon after. I'm not aware how long he was there. I have no other sense of time than the length of time I have been dead.

Nothing else seems to make sense. Nothing.

Yet this. This does not make sense either.