I went back to our spot in the park tonight. I laid down on the dead grass field. You used to worry about getting your hair messed up and I'd have to bring blankets to lay on and flashlights to show you for the 1000th time that there were no bugs. It was so quiet without you. As I laid there looking at the stars that we used to look at, at the sky you may be staring at now, I was overcome with this realization of the immensity of the universe. Like the sky in its vastness had enveloped me. Then came the tears. I've never loved anyone like I loved you. Maybe you knew that, but maybe it didn't matter. My cries became yells and next thing I knew, I was screaming in agony. I'm angry because it was no one's fault. I can't exactly walk up to our circumstances and beat them up. There's no obstacle to overcome, and that makes it that much harder to get over it.

After you moved, I used to look up what constellations were visible where you lived. And every night, I would go to our spot and look at your sky on my phone. Your sky. If only it were ours again.

I don't know if you've moved on, or if you even think of me from time to time. Maybe you have, and I am the blubbering fool on the grass in the middle of a park on Friday night, trying to find meaning in something—anything.

I miss you.