We don’t lie because we’re dishonest.
We lie because the truth hurts too much to hold all at once.
So, we soften it. Stretch it. Promise ourselves later.
At first, the lies feel gentle.
Maybe this is just a break. Maybe time will fix it. Maybe if I change, it’ll come back around.
They keep the grief at arm’s length. They let you breathe temporarily.
The Comfort of “Not Yet”
“Not yet” becomes a coping mechanism. You don’t delete the photos. You don’t change the routines. You don’t let the future fully collapse. You exist in the space of almost. Almost letting go. Almost accepting it. Almost grieving.
Hope Disguised as Denial
There’s a version of hope that isn’t brave — it’s avoidant.
It tells you:
- Don’t feel it yet
- Don’t name it yet
- Don’t accept it yet
Because once you do, the pain becomes real. And real pain demands to be processed.
When the Lies Stop Working
Eventually, the lies lose their grip. The messages don’t come. The days stack up. Reality stops negotiating. And you’re left holding the truth you postponed now heavier from the waiting.
Why We Forgive Ourselves for This
You weren’t weak for needing the lies. You were human. Grief doesn’t arrive politely. It crashes in waves, and sometimes you need time to learn how to swim. The lies didn’t break you. They bought you a moment to breathe.
This Is How We Break
Not by refusing the truth. But by approaching it slowly, when our hearts can finally carry it.
This Is How We Break. Healing Comes Later.
💔 How We Break. How We Heal.
When love ends — and you’re learning how to carry what remains
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Say The Unspoken 
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