Science wont fix this. Science is too clinical, too clean. There's always an answer. Look long enough, there will be an answer. Years... or decades maybe. Centuries. But you'll find it. A cure. The solution. An answer.
But science doesn't know pain. Science inflicts pain, but it doesn't know it because it hasn't experienced it. Science doesn't know how to feel because it never is the one feeling. It inflicts feelings, not the other way around.
Science could probably find the cure to a broken heart, someday. Could have an injection, a mathematically perfect formula, could exact out the number of stitches for the heartstrings of each different specimen.
But science couldn't be able to cure this. Not this one. This one hurts like a black hole never discovered, like the middle of the sun undiscovered. This hurts in the way that no one would ever know, would ever be able to explain. Art would get close, and maybe music closer. But science? Cold, hard and perfect in its calculations? Could never understand this.
Whatever's going on right now... this is messy. She's gone and it hurts and it can't be explained. For once in my life, there's not explanations. She wasn't supposed to go – logic and science told me that. That I was the vulnerable one. Not her. That I was ravaged by the disease, that my lungs were riddled with holes like a rat-chewed sponge. That I was seeping blood, leaking my life out onto tissue after tissue and clinically white and stainless steel surfaces everywhere I went.
She wasn't supposed to go. And science can't explain that.
