No one told me how fucking boring life would be after you lose your boyfriend.
Depressing, dark, cold, lonely? Sure. Those are all a given. However, six weeks and two days after Patrick’s death, life is so boring that when I have free time I don’t even know what to do with myself.
In the morning I wake up to zero text messages from him.
On my breaks at work I realize I’m saving my funny anecdotes for no one.
I don’t have anyone to send those memes to that only he would appreciate or understand.
After work I have no phone calls from him to look forward to.
I won’t hear his voice giving me pep talks to make me feel better on bad days.
I won’t hear his laugh that’s just as good as the funny story he’s about to tell me.
I can’t drag him to brunch or to a concert or down the streets of Chicago when I walk way too fast and enjoy the summer heat way too much.
I have no one to take endless selfies with, gushing about how cute we are together, always acting like a couple who just started dating yesterday.
I have no one who will listen to my rants, promising I’m not annoying him, and me knowing he really means it.
At night when I can’t sleep, there’s no one guaranteed to be awake to help me fall asleep with comforting words or stories to distract my insomniatic brain.
Nothing means as much when he’s not here.
Sunsets, delicious food at new restaurants, the snow melting. While all still glorious, there’s a palpable emptiness in it all. There’s emptiness in everything now. And there always will be.
Life is just less without him.
Less fun, less beautiful, less hopeful, less meaningful. The world doesn’t make sense without him in it.
Grief is something that happens as the world continues to turn. The world doesn’t care that I’m grieving. But I care, and that’s all that matters.