Felicia,

Each day, I think of how much I miss you, and somehow the daylight feels like a punishment. Morning comes, but it does not bring light. It only reminds me that I have survived another night without you in it.

The hours grow darker around your absence. By evening, even the walls seem to mourn you, and every quiet corner becomes a place where I almost expect to find you.

I miss you in ways that have begun to frighten me, in the silence between heartbeats, in the empty side of the bed, in the terrible realization that another day has passed and you are still not here.

But this is the bed I have made for us. I know it hurts. God, I know it hurts. And still, somewhere beneath all this sorrow, I know it will be for the best.

That does not make leaving easier. It does not make missing you any less cruel. It only means I have to accept that sometimes loving someone means choosing a pain you never wanted because you believe it will save you both.

And every day I lose a little more of the sun, a little more of myself, until I wonder if this is what grief does: not kill you all at once, but dim the world so slowly that you don't notice you've been disappearing with it.

I'm still sorry. For the silence. For the distance. For the hurt I left behind.

I'm sorry that this is the bed I have made for us.

I only wish I didn't have to sleep in it without you.