𝐄𝐳𝐫𝐚 | 18+

65

I shoot up from the bed, covered in cold sweat, my hair sticking to my forehead, the sheets half tangled between my legs and the other half laying on the floor in a messy pile.

Rain batters against the window and I can hear it echoing around the house as it slams against the roof mercilessly.

I look around.

He's not here.

He's been dead for two months.

Even just thinking of his name makes my heart ache. My eyes well up with tears and my body starts to tremble.

Every morning, I would wake up to an empty bed, aside from Igor.

The day of his death was the day my heart had been ripped out of my chest and crushed, leaving nothing but a void where his love was supposed to be. His death was enough to make me feel dead inside, to leave me holding onto the last, fragile strand of life with the tips of my fingers. I haven't been able to be happy in two months.

I'd been having taunting dreams of him almost every night since his death, which have all been like slaps on the face as if to mock me.

The news of his death spread quickly to almost everyone I knew, who kindly brought me food and letters.

I'm unable to escape it. Everywhere I look, everything I touch, every thought I think, leads me back to him. Even the damn people showing up at my apartment to tell me they're sorry for my loss.

I came back home the day after he died, picked Igor up from Ashlyn who was nice enough to watch him for a few days, and headed back to my apartment.

Everything has been numb since he left. A lot changes when you lose the most important person in your life.

I often blame myself for having gotten so attached to him, for having fallen so deeply in love with everything about him, but in the end I didn't know. I didn't know what would happen.

I've learned to appreciate every moment spent with someone important to me. That I should take advantage of everything as if it were the last moment I had with that person.

I wish I could go back in time to appreciate every minute spent with him.

We had so little time together, yet it was all ripped away from me in a matter of a few minutes.

His funeral is being held today. The reason it took so long to organize was because everyone who'd known him in Italy had to fly to America and it took longer than what was expected.

A part of me still hopes that he will show up out of thin air and tell me he was right, that everything would have been okay. I wish I could feel his arms around me once more, his lips on mine, that feeling I got in the pit of my stomach whoever I gazed into the depths of grey in his eyes.

Pictures can only capture so much.

Even bringing myself to look at a picture of him sounds more torturous than being put through a shredding machine. And, as if it were a choice of mine, I see him every time I close my eyes. Even in the briefest of moments, his face will flash behind my eyelids.

I hate the fact that the last memory I have with him was spent in agony for the both of us, knowing it would possibly be the last time we'd see each other. And what I hate even more is the thought of what he had to go through before he was killed. What sort of inhumane torture was he put through?

I wish we could have had our happily ever after, but unfortunately not every good story had a happy ending.

"I'll be back tomorrow, amore mio, it'll be like I was never gone."