What possesses you to keep checking your phone? That compulsive, twitchy little habit of opening their social media, just to see. To see what? To see them happy? To see them miserable? You’re not even sure. You reread the old text messages, a form of self-torture you’ve perfected, searching for the exact moment it all went wrong. There’s a physical ache in the center of your chest, a hollowed-out feeling that makes you want to curl into a ball. Your thumb still hovers over their name in your contacts, a muscle memory of a life that no longer exists. Let’s call this what it is. This is not some poetic sadness. This is not the stuff of sad songs and romantic movies. This is a full-blown nervous system hijacking. Your body is screaming DANGER, drenched in a cortisol cocktail that keeps you in a state of high alert, even as your mind whispers that you should be “over it by now.” But you can’t think your way out of a flood. The grief isn’t in your head. It’s in your bones. It’s a lead blanket in your gut, a tight band around your throat that makes it hard to breathe,