des excuses

Sometimes grief is simply exhaustion from trying to understand. When the mind searches for explanations that don't exist, and the heart still burns candles for the repose of feelings that will never return. You seem to know: you can't dive into the same river all the time, especially if the bottom is covered with broken glass. But habit is a strange thing: you walk to the edge again, look down, and take the step anyway.

There is no dramatic sorrow in this sound, but rather a quiet, resilient regret. It's as if the person isn't crying, but simply allowing their eyes to take a break from pretending. Warmth, pain, a little French hopelessness, and a touch of pride in still being able to feel.