Then it came to me. Or no, came is the wrong word. It didn’t just come, it hit me—sucker-punched me with a blow to the gut that left me doubled up and gasping with grief. Gabe was dead. Gabe was dead. For a long time I simply sat there, curled over my knees, my head in my hands, trying to make sense of it, trying to cram the fact into my brain. Was this going to be what it was like, every morning from now on? Was every day going to be a process of waking up, reaching for his warmth, and losing him all over again?
