Somewhere in the twilight where awake meets sleep, I dreamt of planning a bike ride with you. I imagined talking to you about it being 70 degrees on Thursday and how we should take advantage of that and go for a bike ride to the park. We could bring Dottie in the backpack and some snacks from PCC. As quickly as I envisioned the warmth of the sun and the cool feeling of the earth beneath us, I realized you were not here to actually go on the ride. That it will be 70 degrees in Chico, not in Seattle. That I am now in a totally different world than I was. The sense memory of crisp air on my face as we rode bikes down the Burke and the look of serenity in your smile as you pedaled down the path faded. My eyes jolted open, and I immediately pulled Dottie closer. Tears did not fall as I lay contemplating how silly it felt to plan a day with you when you are not here anymore. I checked the time. 12:23am. Great – it was going to be a long night if this was how it started.

As I reflect on this now, I find it interesting tears did not and are not falling. Why is that? Tears shed from my body with any sort of focus on how much I miss you, a river forcing itself through the damn. But not now with the sense-memory of planning a day with you? I think I feel relief to still know you are there somewhere. That I can feel you even though you left me. Whether planned or not, a detail I can never know, you did leave me. That part, the leaving, feels so clear.

This is the first time I have felt like writing to you or telling you how I feel about what is happening in my life. I wish you were here, and I am furious that you are not. I am so angry you could not manage your life more effectively, that trauma, neurodivergence, mental illness and a society that closes doors to discomfort prevented you from learning to manage your life. You, the smartest man I will ever know, could not see a pathway out. I am devastated I cannot talk to you about it. That you cannot reassure me yourself you did not drink as much as you did on purpose. I cannot live in the story where you killed yourself because that story is too fucking sad. You promised me you would not leave me in that way, that you would not end your life and, even if you had to break that promise, I just do not think you would have drunk yourself to death on purpose. That feels too messy and sloppy. I do not think you would have let me find you in that position, aspirated on your vomit and not breathing. You would not want to burden me that way. I know if love were enough, you would still be here. I know this is not my fault. Yet, knowing this does not change the shape of my anger and that you are not here. The only person I want reassurance from cannot provide it. Sitting in that reality is what causes tears to fall. They are falling now in hot globs down my face. I need your hug, your hands on my face, your words. Your beautiful words.

I found you on our dining room floor 61 days ago. My body knew when I found you that the text you sent that morning was the last time you would speak to me. “I love you cutie.” For the past few weeks, my entire body aches all the time. I am storing grief in my hips and the pain leads to restless sleep. I wake up a lot and wish I could reach across the expanse of our bed and grab your hand as I used to. Instead, I hit play on another round of Gilmore Girls or How I Met Your Mother and avoid wondering about when I will sleep again. As if there is any way to know.