Everyone has different ways of coping.
Some type the same message over and over again, with the assurance that the backspace key will make up for the courage lost when they couldn’t hit enter.
Some look into a mirror and wipe away their tears, pretending to be strong for their imaginary audience and convincing themselves that the only person they need to be strong for is themselves.
Some write; they orchestrate words that no one would ever believe were born out of pain because how could you possibly romanticize unhappiness so much that it seems beautiful? Maybe if that were possible, the pain wouldn’t hurt as much? Perhaps that’s why everyone wants to be a writer.
Some sing songs that remind them of the loss they bear, as if reliving moments only to let go of them at the last note. I always did wish I could sing.
Some lock themselves in a room until they’re all dried out for the next tragedy heading their way. I wonder if someday they’ll shut the doors so tight they won’t know how to leave.
Some don’t quite grasp what exactly they’re coping with, almost as if they feel the whirlwind coming from a mile away and have accepted their fate.
Others? They just scribble notes in little corners of the web hoping no one ever really finds them.