I do not think recovery is a straight road. I do not think it progressively gets better. Some days, you feel like flying, like everything is soft and warm and the nights are long without being sad. Some nights you wake up with so much lightness, with wings growing out of your back, with your fingers touching the stars from your bedroom window. Other days, however, you wake up wanting to die again. Everything feels heavy and slow and your fingers will ache with numbness. These days, you will not eat. You will sit in silence in rooms full of noise, feel your chest tighten. These days, you will text him and tell him you miss him. These days, he does not reply. These days, your friends make fun of how quiet you become, how you never say a thing. These days, you tell them you are tired. You tell them you have not slept. You do not tell them about the burn in your chest, how breathing became a burden. How soft death looks, how often you think of walking onto busy streets in rush hour. These days, however, will pass. One day, you will wake up feeling light again, feel the stars at the tip of your fingers, teach yourself to eat again. One day, you will forget what all that weight felt like, what thinking of death felt like.