There is a stage of suffering when good wishes become cruelty.

When there is no road back to a better existence, speaking of hope isn't a gift, it is a merciless intrusion, a way to shield oneself from the truth, to keep believing one is helping, to hold on to the illusion that someone else's ending is not already here.

In this place, positivity is not for them; it is for us. It is not selfless, it is selfish. And the kindest thing left is not to offer hope, it is to share the silence of what is real. And to know how we ourselves have lead to it.