FIFTY-TWO
AlmaLeo’s been gone a month. Thirty days. Four weeks. Around seven hundred and thirty hours. And it’s rough.
Every morning when I wake, I instinctually reach for him on the other side of the bed, wanting him to fold me into his embrace. Then, I remember, and my soul shatters all over again. I’ve held a steaming pot of water up to every mirror and window in our home, hoping to find another message from beyond, but I always come up short.
Every minute of every day, I feel sick, my body still in shock at his absence. I have to force myself to eat, and most meals threaten to come up, many succeeding. I’m navigating how to exist in a world where he’s not. Sometimes, I think I’m failing. The parts of me that hold on to Leo’s existence with every fiber of my being urge me to allow my
