sometimes, a book hits you in a way that leaves you with nothing but silence. a very easy death did that—like it carved out a space in me i didn’t know existed. simone de beauvoir doesn’t shy away from the rawness of it all: the fragile line between life & death, the powerlessness you feel watching someone you love fade away.

it’s not just about death—it’s about witnessing it, being tangled in its inevitability, & realizing how painfully human it is to want to control the uncontrollable. the way she writes feels so intimate, so deeply vulnerable, that it almost felt like i wasn’t meant to be there, like i was intruding on something sacred.

it was gut-wrenching. death stripped of any romanticism, just the bare truth of it—messy, relentless, & so final. i don’t even know if i “liked” the book because it’s not something you like; it’s something you endure. it’s haunting & unforgettable, & i’m not sure i’ll ever be able to put it into words properly.