I remembered when I had gotten the call that night. I had rushed to get my clothes on, practically ran out of the house with nothing but a robe and my slippers. I had cried the whole way there praying god not to take you away from me. The tears had burned my eyes and it made it hard to see the road.

The waiting room was depressing and cold. The tv in the background played the news which was just a reminder of how shitty the world already was. The chair I sat in was uncomfortable but I sat in it for three days for you. The doctor had told me that you couldn’t breathe on your own and I began to cry again.

They had finally let me into your room but you were nothing but machine and tubes. Nothing but the outer shell of the man I had fell in love with. Your bright blue eyes were closed. Your perfectly tanned skin covered in scars and bandages and your big goofy smile just remained a straight line. You died six hours later and my world collapsed from underneath of me. After your funeral I couldn’t face going home alone so I didn’t. Your family had welcomed me with open arms and I the only way I could sleep was next to your little sister who needed me just as much as I needed her. It took me weeks to get the courage to go home. I wanted to believe I was going to go home to the smell of you in the kitchen making dinner but instead I’d be going home to the ghost of you.

The key they’d given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home.