I scroll through my photos over and over again until my phone dies, just so I can look at us back when we were still us, and then I plug it in and do it again. I keep stopping on one picture of him I’d taken in bed – you can’t even see his face, just his graceful neck, his high cheekbones, that artfully-built hair. Once I get lost in the photo, staring for twenty minutes, and then I finally say it. Bursting out of me like a diva’s unexpected climax during a quiet moment of a play, it just flows out of me, the thing I never said to him: “I love you.” But he’s not here anymore, and we aren’t us
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