But I can still listen to all the sad songs we sing together and my eyes don’t swell and my stomach doesn’t swirl.
I can lay in my bed and I don’t feel the knot inside me squeezing tighter and tighter, wishing you were here to loosen it.
I can pass my favorite places that we’ve been to together and think of them as mine and not ours.
I can hold important conversations about the economy or global warming, without trying to find a way to tell everyone what your voice sounds like in the morning.
I can drive at night without making a wrong turn somewhere and showing up in your driveway.
I can smell your clothes and breathe you in while you’re out of town without having to sit down and just miss you for a little while.
I can make it through the day without the feeling of your fingers touching mine.
I can sit next to you without wondering if we’ve learned every part of one another.
I can do my schoolwork without stopping to write you a letter about how your eyes look a little more green before you fall asleep.
I can look at you and I have no idea what the space between your neck and your collarbone looks like.
I can do all of this.
And that’s how I know it’s not real.