āI miss you.ā Thatās the only thing I could think of. It had been 6 months and the pain still hadnāt gone away. So much for time heals all wounds. It was painful to see our favorite picture of the summer trip to Europe of which we had mapped out and planned to the last detail, which had sat on the table next to the bed. It hurt to feel the cold, empty side of the bed that you had slept on when you would sneak into my room in the middle of the night, even though my parents were just a door away. The pain of realizing the only thing that ever mattered to you could go in a blink of an eye. I sleep in your clothes every night, hoping to keep grasp of you. Iām down to the last shirt that still smells like you. Iām afraid of taking it out of the vacuum-sealed bag. Afraid that once the smell wears off the memory of you will follow. The memory of how you chew your food with a slight wiggle to your eyebrow. Remember the trip to Europe when we had gotten robbed? Instead of seeing it as a travelling nightmare, we saw it as lightening the load. We had no idea where we were going, no perception of time, nowhere to stay. For the rest of the trip we had stayed at multiple strangers homes. Eating the foreign foods they had so generously prepared for us and enjoying the experience we may have never gotten if we had stayed at a hotel with other tourists. Ā Memories of our night time escapades; shouting at strangers and just as they turn around, freezing into the most ridiculous and attention grabbing pose, only for them to chuckle (or ignore us) and turn around, back on their original paths. Paths. Itās funny how our paths crossed, as if we were destined to fall deep into love, never wanting to let go. I know you didnāt want to let go. Not really. But you had to. I remember when I first found out. Of course I didnāt believe it. How could I fathom that the one thing I had been anticipating for eighteen years, that had seemed it had been waiting for me, be gone? I had twisted the news so much in my head that I canāt even remember who had told me. Was it not important who, but what? When the words left their mouth I could feel my soul breaking. It shattered into a billion tiny pieces, pieces I knew I was incapable of picking up and putting back together again. The first few days were dark. I spent them calling your phone just to listen to your voice on your answer machine. I did not cry. Not a tear dropped from my eyes. It wasnāt until a month later when I finally broke down. I had been walking around like a zombie; a shell of my former self, contagious to those around me. I lost a lot of friends, our friends because of it. I hid everything deep inside and let it ferment and spoil until I couldnāt hold it anymore. I broke down on the public bus. I suppose it was the right moment to start taking the bus as nobody blinked an eye at the shattered soul sitting in front of them. There was no one to console me then, and I didnāt want anyone to. Everyone had finished the so called āgrieving processā we had learnt about in our late night Wikipedia studies, whereas I had just begun. I rode the bus until the stops ended and I was forced to depart. As soon as the crisp winter air hit my lungs, I had ceased crying and tried to straighten myself up and act okay in case I ran into someone, although the streaks of makeup running down my face would tell them otherwise. I was walking for ages before I reached our building. When I finally stood in front of our door, I could feel the lump in my throat rising and my body start to shake, indicating the crying fit would start again. I rushed to put my key in the door to allow myself entry before I broke down again, and after what seemed like an eternity of me trying to steady my hand, I made it in and collapsed to the ground before I even shut the door. I fell asleep there, emotionally and physically drained. That was the worst day since our separation.Ā
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