Feel what you feel. In the words of those yoga instructors you like, let the emotions flow through you, notice them, and let them go on their way.

Take up yoga again. There’s an adorable little dock—take your yoga mat and do some sun salutations out there at sunrise.

Just learn to BE, Nadia. You’ll have forgotten. Now it’s time to relearn.

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 to say this, 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 it up, that 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.

I want to keep writing. I have so much I wish I could say to you. But this letter must serve a purpose, and that purpose is to help you live again, and to tell you that I love you, and that I want you to move on.

I love you. I am grateful beyond the capacity of human language to express for every single second I have had the privilege of spending in your presence. You have loved me well, more than I deserve and more yet. You have made my life a more beautiful place, my love. And even in this harrowing experience of dying, you have continued to love me with understanding and grace and gentleness and affection. I hope you look back on our life together with joy, Nadia. Remember me as I was—alive, and loving you. Remember all the good times we had, and hold on to them. They’re yours forever.

And now, my darling Nadia, I must say goodbye.

This is not the last goodbye for me, for I have some time yet, but for you, these will be the final words from me:

I love you.

Thank you.

Live again.

Yours in life, in death, and beyond,

Adrian

It is a long, long time before I am able to stop crying.

When I can see, albeit with stinging eyes and a plugged nose, I realize I am alone, curled up on the couch, clutching Adrian’s now tear-stained letter. I hear a noise: thump, thud, thudthudthud, thump…