This is the name of a post that was in my draft folder. There was nothing here but a title dated long before Male died. Those words might not mean much to you, but another piece chipped off my heart and clattered to the ground when I saw it.

When I was at my worst, he took my face in both hands, forced me to look him in the eye, and he said, “You’re fierce, you’re beautiful, and I love you.” He said, “If you kill yourself, I’ll never forgive you.”

It hurt me to see how I was hurting him, so I got better.

He’s not here now. He’s gone away forever.

I have friends. I have you, but you won’t take my head in your giant paws, stare intently at me with ocean blue eyes, and tell me, “You’re fierce, you’re beautiful, and I love you.”

You won’t put your big, warm hand over my heart and tell me, “It’s right here. You and me. Right here.”

You won’t tell me, “Everything is going to be alright,” and make me feel like just this once, even though it never was before, just maybe, it might actually be alright this time.

You might tell me that, but I won’t believe you. It would be hollow and empty like everything else. I won’t believe you the way I believed him.

I don’t know what to do without the big hand on my heart. I go on living, because it’s easier than the alternative. I get out of bed, because it keeps me from thinking, but it sneaks through all my cracks anyway like a dust storm.

It still hurts so very much, this hole in my heart that he left there 130 days ago. It’ll never close up. Not entirely.