Because as a day turns into two, turns into a week and there’s no more breakfast on his porch or mine and no more lazy afternoons on the dock, and his understanding presence always seeming to be right there when I needed it and comforting in a way I didn’t know was possible.

I miss him.

And that hurts.

It’s weird, though—it’s the same verb: to miss. If you Google it, the third definition of miss has three entries: to notice the loss or absence of, to feel regret or sadness at no longer being able to enjoy the presence of, and to regret or be sad about not being able to do, have, or be or go.

I can say I miss Adrian, and that I miss Nathan, but despite meaning the same semantic thing, the two are a universe apart.

What do I do with it all?

Was this whole “I need space to think” an experiment? To see how I’d react to not being around Nathan? If it is, I’m not sure how I feel about the results.

I don’t know what possesses me to do so, but I dig into my purse and pull out the letter from Adrian.

Read it, more than once.

I pause and reread a specific section several times:

There will be more for you to do, in learning to live again, but the important thing for you to hold foremost in your mind, my love, is this: I WANT you to move on. In every way. Please. When I made you promise to live, this is what I meant. Move on.

Love again, Nadia.

Yes, even that.

It hurts, I admit. You’re mine.

But I’m gone, now. And it’s time for you to live again. You have too much love to keep hidden inside. To keep buried under my skeleton.

Dig that up, my love. Dust it off. Try it on, and then, before you feel ready, use it again.

I want you to. I expect you to.

If we meet in heaven and you have spent the rest of your life alone, I shall be angry with you, my love.

Life is for the living. So live.

Easy for you to say, Adrian, you’re not the one here left trying to do it.

How do I do that?

I’m not ready.

I’ll never be ready.

But I guess that was his point, huh?

I put the letter away, back in the envelope, back into my purse.

It’s late. Past dark, into the cricket-song night. His porch light is on. I’m not thinking. Not planning. I just let my feet carry me to his porch. Let my fist knock on his door.