And today marks two months without hearing your voice anymore.
Losing a family member, unlike everyone else who hasn't lost one perceives, does not mean you're never going to do anything again, you cry every time you hear their name, or you have a shrine to them in your bedroom that you look at every night.
It's like missing a team mate. A puzzle without one piece. It's a whole bunch of thoughts ranging from "I'm glad they're never going to have suffer" to "I'm so pissed at them for dying" and "Why didn't the world stop? Why are people thinking about anything else?"
It's the ink stain of a permanent marker on a crisp white bed sheet that has a giant hole in it, that you keep trying to sew back together but every time you see or hear a certain thing every stitch gets plucked apart.
It's a hole in your heart. It's a heavy ache that sits in your chest like a rock. It's an "I love you" stuck in your throat, and not because you're scared. Its an unbalanced scale that you are desperately trying to make equal but you know you can't. It's a lush forest, that got a parking lot in the middle of it.
There's an emptiness in it, and you can feel it in every room. You can hear it in every single syllable of every single word trying to tell a story about the one you loved. You can see it in every picture of them smiling.
So, it's not a situation that gets better. You just get used to dealing with it, and this is a story about dealing with it.