"Do you still text him?" John's therapist asked.
"Yeah, sometimes..."
"You know he won't text you back."
"Yeah, but it's still comforting. It helps me cope," John said, choking back tears. "I just miss him so much."
"It's been six months since the incident. I think it's in your best interest to try to move on."
John glared at her and bit his quivering bottom lip. "You don't understand how hard this is for me."
"John, I'm just trying to help."
"I know, I know," he choked, unable to hold back the tears. "It's just...I loved him so much, you know? LOVE him. I'll always love him. And now he's gone. I saw him jump..." He buried his face in his hands and began to sob.
"John, it's okay. It's okay if you're not over his death yet. But you're hardly leaving your flat. Sometimes you can't even dress yourself. Your sleep is disrupted. You're not coping very well."
"No shit I'm not coping well. It's that flat...the stairs creak as I try to sleep and it keeps me awake...I always think I hear his footsteps nearing my door."
"It's an old building, John," his therapist said softly.
"I know, I know," John said, waving at her dismissively.
"Have you thought about moving out? Maybe getting something smaller? Moving in with your sister? Maybe a change of environment will help you."
"No. I won't leave that flat. That was ourflat. I can't. I...can't leave it." He wiped tears from his eyes and started wringing his hands, trying to get himself together.
"John, you know he won't be coming back."
"Regardless, I can't leave Baker Street. I won't leave."
"That's your choice, John. I'm only trying to help."
"Yes, yes I know. But sometimes talking about it makes it hurt more than it makes it feel better."
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