Now
I heard about his death via social media. Sign of the times, I guess. Twenty-five years of pure, unadulterated - or adulterated, depending on how you look at it - love. Shut down by Facebook or Twitter with the click of a button.
I don't speak for a week. To anyone. I lock the door, close the curtains, and sit, completely numb. After a while, work beckons and family pester. I pull myself together as best I can and resume my life.
I didn't attend his funeral. But then again, I didn't go to his wedding either. I am unsure as to which has fucked me up more. The jury is still out on that one.
The letter came three months later.
