God, I miss her.

I miss her so much.

Every gasp of air I choke down reminds me that I wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t enough. As much as I tried, I would have never sufficed. I was her downfall, when all I ever wanted was to be everything to her. I wanted to be perfect for her, perfect, just like the perfect deep grey of her eyes.

She had always hated their color.

Oh god, dear god, I miss her so much.

I open my eyes. Everything hurts.

Today’s the day; day one of the rest of my life – my life without Maddie. I just want to vanish, cease existing here and now. I loved her so much.

I feel a paw on my face. A friendly reminder that the world keeps turning. As much as I refuse to acknowledge the fact that the sun will rise and set like any other day, I’m afraid I don’t have much of a say in this. “Life goes on.” was the first thing Mom told me (tactful, I know). Bullshit. Utter and complete bullshit. My life does not go on. It has stopped dead in its tracks and is staring wide-eyed right down the abyss. A paw on my face, again. My cat Thatcher is giving me death stares. A quick look on my alarm clock reveals the time: 3 pm. Thatcher has been due for breakfast for hours; no wonder he is so pissed.

I slip out from under the blanket and sit on my bed. I’m one hundred per cent positively convinced that my heart will explode out of my chest any second now. She’s Gone. Gone, gone, gone. Thatcher is standing in the doorframe, purring. I surrender, throw on a t-shirt and head down the stairs for the kitchen.

The sun is bursting through the French windows of my kitchen, bathing the room in rays of light. It feels obscene. I fill Thatcher’s bowl and head for the water kettle, in hopes of soothing my aching mind with a cup of hot Sencha tea – at least temporary.

Maddie had always loved my house with its high windows and large double wing doors. Now, it just feels like a wasteland to me. Every time a thunderstorm came up, Maddie would grab some pillows and blankets and hide out on the window sill in the living room, watching the rain drops race each other down the window glass. Thatcher and I usually just hid out under the blankets of my bed, praying to god that the storm would pass soon.

The lump in my throat gets bigger. I’m desperately trying to fight against the rising panic inside of me. She’s Gone. Gone, gone, gone. Forever lost. I make a beeline for the patio doors, I need to get out, I need air, I’m suffocating in here. When dashing past, I accidentally rip down the water kettle. Hot water is scuffing its way over my hardwood floors, leaving drips and splashes and drops everywhere. I throw the doors open, grasping for air. Deep breaths, in and out and in and out again, air filling every cubic centimeter of my body, rushing through my lungs. Breath after breath, my heartbeat begins to slow down, my hands become steadier.

Then – silence. And with the silence comes the sadness, creeping up my spine, into my veins, pressing every last bit of air out of me.

She’s Gone. Gone, gone, gone.

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