You were 17 when you died.

Murdered.

You got stabbed 26 times on a moving train.

Brutally.

Your boyfriend tried to save you… and paid the price.

Heroically.

You brought warmth and love into every room you entered.

Peacefully.

Your smile was bright like the summer sun on a warm midday.

Lovely.

Your very existence was taken from you in seconds.

Cruelly.

You died ...

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He didn’t feel much anymore.

Not hunger. Not thirst.

Not the pull of sleep that used to cradle boys like him.

All he knew was the heat

of anger beneath his skin,

the slow rot of grief

settled deep in the bones.

But he wore a mask—

not to lie,

but to protect.

From himself.

From the wreckage he carried,

from the storm that begged to be let loose.

So he became

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Loneliness - the absence of connection.

First it broke me. Took away my will to eat, to sleep, hell even to live. It shattered me into pieces and made me so unbelievably desperate for something as simple as a "hey, how are you "text"" or something as simple as a hug. But none of that was ever granted to me. I was fed on emptiness. And not even that emptiness replied back when I screamed in it..

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