Sitting in this spot had been part of your daily routine for the past year. It made you feel closer to him, just talking about your day, even if you knew he was never going to answer. The grass is dry beneath your hands, brown and dead, the beginnings of winter strangling the life from it. How fitting.

“It’s been a year. Three-hundred and sixty-five days” you tell him, a sad look passing over your face. It seemed like just yesterday, and then sometimes it felt like you’d been without him forever. You dreaded the day you’ll have spent more time missing him than knowing him.

A lump catches in your throat, eyes growing damp as you sit there in the silence. A few tears slide down your face, grief squeezing your heart in a vice-like grip. It had a funny way of sneaking up on you like that. One day you were fine, living your life the way he would have wanted you to. And the next you could barely move from how heavy the weight of his absence pressed down on you, crushing you.

After who knows how long you move to stand, brushing your hands on the seat of your pants. You crouch back down, running your fingers over the cool, dark, marble. You wondered if he would have liked it, the stone you had spent so much time picking out.

“I miss you so much” you choke, leaning forward and pressing your lips against the top of the headstone. The kiss lingers longer than necessary, a hollow feeling settling in your chest when you finally pull away.

“Bye, Simon. I love you.”