There’s a particular kind of grief that comes with wanting something so deeply, so innately, that your body aches for it, only to realise it will never be yours. A silent, suffocating grief that lingers in the background of every baby shower, every pregnancy announcement, every quiet moment when you let yourself imagine the life you were meant to have.

Grief doesn’t always arrive with ceremony. Sometimes it comes softly, sliding in through the cracks in your day and sitting beside you like it’s always belonged. Other times it’s abrupt, a phone call, a knock at the door, a silence that lasts too long. Either way, once it’s there, it never truly leaves.

They call it resilience, don’t they? When a girl learns how to carry everything without complaint. When she doesn’t crumble, doesn’t ask, doesn’t flinch. When she shows up, again and again, not because it’s easy, but because no one else thought to do it first.

There’s a kind of ache that doesn’t announce itself with drama. It doesn’t come crashing in or leave visible marks. It’s quieter than grief, softer than heartbreak, but it’s just as persistent. It exists in the pauses. In the gaps between almost and enough. It’s the ache of being almost-chosen.