I re-read your letter today. I keep it in a drawer in case of emergency. Sometimes when I miss you, it helps to pull out that letter and see your handwriting. I imagine the way your hand moved across the page, and recall the feel of it in mine when we prayed together. The paper had none of the warmth that was in your fingers, but it has all the warmth that is in your heart. Spilling out for me in that short note. All your humor and passion and anger and sorrow—the things that kept us returning to each other when the world felt cold. That’s why I keep it. To remember how it felt to be with you.

I miss you. I miss your laughter. I miss talking about nothing and about everything. I miss how my reverence ignited next to yours. I miss feeling seen. Feeling heard. There are other people now who have stepped into that role, but it’s not the same. These people deeply love me, and as much as I love them in return, it’s not like it was with you. I don’t know how it’s possible for a piece of my spirit to be inside another person, but that’s what it feels like. You have a piece of me inside of you. I recognized it. I touched it. I longed to reunite with it.

I have this whole separate space now, apart from you. And though there are similarities between our lives, they move in different spheres, only crossing when we make the time for them to overlap. What was once easy has become hard, especially when one of us is not feeling like our best self. I know I haven’t been lately. The rough patches were easier when I was with you, because you were right next to me. And now even though I know I could call you, there is a great canyon between us. You in your sphere. Me in mine. We do not overlap now unless we carve out the place where we will meet.

Sometimes I wonder where you go, what you do, who you talk to now that you don’t talk to me as often. Did you find someone to fill that space, or are you filling it with digital and liquid demons? I’ve done that. I am doing that. I think I know what you would say about it. I know what I would say to you if I found out you were spending your time the way I’ve been spending mine.

It feels like I’ll never stop missing you. I know it’s only been a little while since you went away and that I need time to heal from your departure. I also know that next month, next year, next decade, I’ll be better. While that gives me some hope, it makes me a little sad too. It means that there will be a time when I won’t miss you as much, when I won’t wish I could see you, hear your laugh, feel your hand in mine. I’ll remember you fondly like I remember being a kid at Christmas, especially if there was snow. I’ll remember you like my long-departed grandparents, who lived in that big white farmhouse that I loved. When this hurt ends and I come to the end of this road, you won’t be standing there, and that will feel like progress. But that’s not what I want at all.

That’s why I re-read your letter today. To keep you close to my heart. To cherish you. Because I love you.

I hope I can see you soon.