The room is still dark, but sleep offers no escape. A thick, oily coating is in your mouth, a clenched fist in your solar plexus before your eyes even open. That first waking second—that sliver of amnesia before you remember—is the only peace you’ll get. And then it comes crashing in. The reality of it. The absence. The gaping wound where a life used to be. You reach for the phone. Of course you do. The digital ghost of them is right there, waiting. You scroll through old photos, re-read texts, check their social media to see if they’re sleeping soundly while your world is on fire. It’s a particular kind of self-harm, this morning ritual of yours. A deliberate, methodical reopening of the wound, all before your feet have even touched the floor. You’re mainlining the poison first thing in the morning, and then you wonder why the rest of the day feels like a slow, agonizing death. Let’s name this for what it is. Krishna's reflection on this It’s not just sadness. It’s a biological state of emergency. That jolt of panic and despair that hits you the moment you wake is a hormonal tsunami. It’s cortisol, the