He had only ever seen you on your good days. The days when your spirit seemed untouchable, when your laughter rang out, and your eyes shone with an untamed, almost frantic energy. Those were the moments you felt alive, even if only for a short time. When the world felt full of possibility, and everything inside of you seemed to burst with excitement.

Now, you stand before him, chest tight, breaths coming in ragged bursts, while his eyes were wide with confusion and hurt. Your throat burned from the screaming, your voice stripped away by the force of your own frustration.

How could he ever know that you were drowning within a maelstrom of emotion that tousled your struggling form? Inside, your soul was aching, mourning some nameless loss, as though the weight of everything and nothing at once was slowly crushing you. That each sound that nestled in your ears only served to set your nerves ablaze, a constant barrage of static and pinpricks, relentless and inescapable.

How could he ever know that you were hard to love?