You never missed any of Nico’s special events. You made sure to go to every game, every dinner. You remembered every birthday, anniversary, and important date.

It was important to you.

He had his own designated spot on your couch, your dining room table; his own side on the bed. That never changed, and probably never would. Not that you would ever want it to.

You locked your apartment door after arriving home from work, hanging your coat up. Nico’s hook on the left was empty, but you never used it, despite it being more practical.

You placed your bag down on the counter at the same time that arms circled around you from behind, and Nico placed a kiss on the side of your head.

“Hi, Angel. I missed you,” he hummed, breath hot against your ear. You loved coming home to him.

Except, you didn’t really.

No.

Two months ago, Nico ended up in hospital after a head injury from a bad hit on the ice. It got pushed to the side as simple bruising, but in reality, it was much worse than that. Maybe it would’ve been okay if they’d diagnosed it accurately from the beginning, but it was too late.

It had been one month since they called his time of death. While Nico was standing in front of you, he wasn’t truly there. But maybe it was the spirit of him, or a cruel joke played by your mind; it didn’t matter. He was there.

Sometimes people would see you in the family section at the team’s games, and ask who you were, and who you were there to see. You’d always say the same thing, “I’m just here to watch my boyfriend play.”

It was then that they would recognise you, their expressions would turn into ones of pity, and they’d just smile and look away.

But here, in the private of your own apartment, he was there. With you. Like it should’ve been. But it would never be real, not really. He’d never actually be there with you, like you wanted.

Because he was gone. And the Nico you’ve been left with, are the crumbs of himself that he left behind through you.