The man on the train who wouldn't stop talking to me read me like a book. "Its a terrible thing, to lose a loved one, isn't it?" He said, in such a way that I knew he was reflecting my pain, not his own. "Yes, it is terrible," I said, wondering how he had managed to know how I was feeling without my saying anything.
True, I haven't lost my loved one permanently; they are not dead, or on the other side of the world.
But they are far away enough that I feel completely lost in myself. Far away enough that I feel like someone has ripped me up into little pieces. The old man had read my mind, read my face. An open book.
No one should have to lose a loved one on any spectrum. Whether its once to death, or an infinite number of times to geography.