It is quite pitiable that no matter what, time has not healed me. I feel the same as I did months ago—before the minutes away from you turned into hours, then dragged out ceaselessly into days and months and will soon become years. My love for you is just as everlasting as it was then, like an eternal candle whose wick never fully burns out. Every time I hear your name being spoken from the lips of others or see it written down somewhere, I am still tripped up. Thinking of you still makes my breath hitch in the same way it did when you were right beside me. I was once in love with you, and now I am in love with a memory of you—but memories are all that endure, anyway. They are all we have and all we can take with us in death. I am madly, unconditionally in love with your memory—and that is the most real thing of yours that I have ever owned.