Everything reminds me of you. Everyday I have an experience worthy of a story. I catch myself looking forward to seeing you, so I can tell you all about all of it—the odd visitors to my apartment, or the date I took to the museum of sex.

I don’t know if this is called anything. I don’t know if it’s some kind of disorder—maybe they can call it: anticipatory grief.

I honestly don’t give a shit about the label. I just miss you. I miss trying to be a better writer than you. I miss the way you made me laugh myself to sobs and choking. Those laughs always felt so good. They broke up my depression for hours. For hours, I just felt normal.

I love you for that. I love that you made me feel normal. That was the magic for me.

Only you could make me feel that comfortable with my own thoughts. Every idea was accepted, poked fun at, and altered.

I don’t know what to do now. Only you could make me laugh that way.