Some people like to say “everything happens for a reason.” But I think that’s bullshit. Was there a reason the love of my life died in a car crash at 23? I didn’t think so. I told you. Bullshit.

Eric and I were the type of couple that beat all the odds. We made it through long distance. We made it through moving cities. We made it through the death of his mom. Through all the change, our love was one constant I could rely on.

Our routine used to go like this; I’d wake up at 6:45 in our shitty little bed in our shitty little apartment in NYC. He’d already be up, of course. He’s an early bird.

I used to hate mornings. I could hardly drag myself out of bed to the smell of the breakfast he was making me. Now I stumble out of bed right away. There’s no use trying to stay longer in a cold, empty bed, all by myself. I’d go to work, be home around 5:00.

Eric didn’t get home until 6:00, so I’d make dinner. Lasagna was his favorite. I always complained about how much work it was and didn’t make it enough. If he was still here I’d make lasagna every night.

After dinner, we’d watch TV, or play video games, or read our books. Always in the same room. Sometimes we wouldn’t do anything, just sit and talk for hours. Eric was always great to talk to.