Not all problems can be solved

The Knock

A quiet knock at the door. Even before it opens, you know who it will be, and part of you braces, wondering what storm might be waiting on the other side.

The Tremor

She steps in with quiet words — the kind of polite, surface-level chatter that fills space but means little. You don’t hear the words themselves; you hear the tremor beneath them. You see the way she’s holding herself together by threads, emotion trembling just beneath the surface.

The Flood

And then it breaks. Her voice cracks into pain, and suddenly words are spilling out faster than you can catch them — a torrent, a flood. You guide her inside, sit her down, and wait for the rush to slow, praying that when it does, the pain might ease.

The Break

What she tells you makes your heart ache, makes the world tilt, darker. She isn’t asking for solutions. She isn’t ready for change. She is drowning in feeling, unable to think beyond the weight of it. But you don’t realize that until it’s too late. Your mind races, desperate to fix, to mend, to offer anything that might make it better.

“What she feels doesn’t matter, she doesn’t matter.”

You speak — suggestions, thoughts, lifelines — and suddenly she is screaming, shaking, her voice raw. If your heart wasn’t broken before, it is now. You can only repeat, over and over, that she does matter.

“You do matter. You always will.”

The Embrace

At last, your words reach her. The fight drains away, leaving exhaustion in its place. You wrap her in a hug, because there is nothing else to do. You hold her, wishing the world were different, knowing it isn’t. Time stretches — long and heavy — as you feel her sob against you.

The Rebuild

Cycle of rebuilding

Then, as if a switch has been flipped, she pulls back. Not just physically, but emotionally. You can almost see her rebuilding herself, brick by brick. The hug that felt right moments ago now feels awkward, misplaced.

Her voice changes. She speaks of fixing things, of being different, of suffering as though it were destiny. You know you should stay silent, but you can’t. You tell her you don’t believe she was meant to carry this much pain. She keeps talking, as if your words never landed.

The Departure

And then she decides it’s time to go. Back to the places, back to the people, back to the source of her hurt. For a heartbeat — an eternity compressed into a moment — you consider stopping her. Taking away her choices. Forcing her onto a path you think would be safer.

But conscience, and God, intervene. You see clearly: forcing her would only trade one kind of pain for another. Right now, there is nothing you can do but hope… and pray.

The Weight

The door closes behind her. She is gone. Your heart is heavy, a stone around your neck. You know it will lighten, eventually. At least for a while.