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“I miss you so much.”

The words tore out of me, raw enough to scrape my throat.

“Every second. Every breath. I miss you in places I didn’t know could ache. I miss you when the room goes quiet. I miss you when someone says your name. I miss you when I see Henry smile your smile. I miss you so much it feels less like grief and more like being buried alive.”

I know.

“Then why won’t you let me come to you?”

The silence that followed was not the empty silence of the apartment.

This silence felt crowded.

It held every word death had stolen from us, every promise we had made because neither of us had understood how little time we would be given to keep them. It pressed against the walls, against the mirror, against my skin, heavy with all the things love had not been allowed to finish saying.

Because I’m not waiting for you.

The cruelty of it struck so hard my knees nearly gave way. I caught myself against the sink, the bottle rattling in my hand, and stared into the mirror as if I could force his reflection to appear behind mine.

“What?”

I’m not standing somewhere beyond this life asking you to hurry. I’m not counting the days until you die. I’m not waiting for you to prove you loved me by following me into the dark.

“That’s not what this is.”

Isn’t it?

“I just want the pain to stop.”

I know, baby.

His tenderness destroyed what little composure I had left. A sob tore through me, folding my body over the sink until my forehead touched the cold mirror. I held the bottle against my chest and wept beneath the weight of a grief too large for one body, wishing the glass would soften, wishing his arms could come through it, wishing love could become flesh simply because I needed it to.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered. “I don’t know how to be here when you aren’t.”

Neither did I.

My breath caught.

Every time I thought about leaving you and Henry behind, I was terrified. I told myself you would survive because you are stronger than anyone I have ever known, but that is not the whole truth. The truth is that I needed to believe you would survive, because the thought of my death becoming the end of you was more than I could bear.

“You weren’t supposed to leave us.”

No.

“You promised me.”

I know.

“You promised Henry.”

I know.

“You said we’d have years.” My voice cracked around the accusation. “You said we’d grow old somewhere no one knew our names. You said we’d watch him grow up. You said there would be time.”

I believed there would be.

“But there wasn’t.”