June thirteenth was the day you started acting differently. I woke up to an empty bed at seven o'clock in the morning. You were never an early riser. You always told me that waking up early was for people who didn't like working late.

I found you in the kitchen. I'll admit that at first I was worried. Whenever you were in the kitchen without me it meant you were probably burning something. You didn't notice me at first, you were hard at work over your notebook. Your hair was down. I always loved it when your hair was down. Sure, it always looked great when you did it up too, but when it was down you looked less wild; you looked less like you wanted to fight the whole world, even though I knew that some piece of you would always be rebelling against the universe.

You flinched when I threaded my fingers through your hair, I guess you didn't hear me come in. I asked you what you were writing as you closed the notebook. As always, you told me that it was nothing, just journaling. You had never bothered writing before, but I was used to you picking up new hobbies and eventually getting bored of them. You cracked a joke about how much you loved my ass in sweatpants, just like you did every other morning. This time was different though. Something just wasn't right. Looking back on it, I think it was your eyes. They started to look less vibrant that day, less green than they should have been.

On June fifteenth you disappeared. You wouldn't answer your phone.

You always answered your phone. Even when we were fighting and you knew I was calling to yell at you.

I spent hours calling people. Your friends, my friends, bars, restaurants. I even called your parents briefly. I felt bad waking them.

You finally came home at two in the morning. When you walked through the door you looked as though nothing was unusual. You asked me what was wrong. You held me, even though I wanted to kill you and I cursed your name for all the world to hear. You still held me, just like always. You apologized, you told me that you had gotten caught up in some sketches at the park and lost track of time.

You didn't have your sketchbook with you.

On June seventeenth you bought me roses. You spent hours writing in your notebook.

On June eighteenth you kissed me. You kissed me all day long. You held me and kissed me and wouldn't let go. I think that maybe you thought that that would be the last day that you would get to do that.

On June nineteenth I asked you if everything was okay. You told me you loved me and went to work.

I thought about going through your notebook then. Maybe I was afraid of what I would find. I didn't even touch it. You had left it right there on the table. You must have wanted me to see it, right? Maybe I could have helped you if I had just swallowed my fear.

On June twenty-first we made love. Just as we had done so many times before that I had lost count. You cried that night. I asked you what was wrong. You just asked me to hold you. I did. I held you all night long, like you held me so many times before that I had lost count.

On June twenty-second you were gone. When I woke up the apartment was empty. Your notebook sat on the bedside table.

The police came to the door at eight pm. They said that they had found you in your car, at the park. You had taken so many pills. I never found out where you had gotten them from.

Your funeral was yesterday, Axel. There were so many people there, you would have loved it; you always did want to be remembered. I've never seen so many people cry. I tried not to. I know how much you hated funerals. You always said that they should be less about mourning and more about celebrating a person's life. I really did try.

This is the last page of your notebook. You wrote so many beautiful memories in here. I especially loved the story about our trip to the islands with my brother, although I wish you had left out the part about me getting seasick.

I'm sorry that you hurt so much, Axel. I'm sorry that I wasn't strong enough to save you. I'm sorry that I couldn't see until you were gone.

I don't know what happens when you die, but I hope that I get to see you again, in the next life. I'll be waiting.

-Roxas