I lay out his clothes on the bed in the morning. Then I go downstairs and put his favourite breakfast on the kitchen table: cereals, freshly made orange juice, a cup of coffee with milk and one sugar cube, one toast with jam and butter; the butter has to slightly melt into the bread, which is still a little bit warm. Then I sit and wait.
I live in a blob, missing him. Life goes past me. I remember how he called my name, the softness of his words, the warmth of his hands. I try really hard to connect, but nobody comes near to the perfection he was for me.
When I come home the house is empty, the stairs are dark, the bed is cold.
I said goodbye without knowing it was the last time. I waited and waited for him to come home. Supper went cold.
I guess I cannot stop acting like everything went on. The weekends are very difficult; time we used to spend together.
I am and will always be his girl.