text: I jumped, and I immediately regretted it. I watched as news of my death spread. My boyfriend rushed to the bathroom, slammed it shut behind him, and went straight to the toilet bowl. His body felt weak, and he had to cling onto the seat to stop his body from crumpling. He felt the bile rise up from his throat and was soon throwing his supper up. He did not cry at my funeral. For the days after the funeral, he went through his daily routines, emotionless and zombie-like. He spent his days losing me, over and over again. He would hear a song that would remind him of me, and he’d lose me again. Something would happen that he wanted to share with me, and he’d lose me again. He would chance upon something in his room that was mine, and he’d lose me again. Only when he visited my grave in the columbarium, half a year later, did he cry. He slammed his fists against the marble tablet with my photograph on it. He let out a cry of frustration. I had never seen him like that before. “You were supposed to call. I would’ve been there, I would’ve held you. I would’ve kissed you,” his voice began to quiver, then lowered to a growl. “Was it so fucking difficult to give me a call instead of giving up and leaving me?” He hit the tablet one last time and placed his fingertips gingerly on my photograph. He continued to lament, his voice now subdued, “We were supposed to grow old together. I need you now. I need you to hold me, and you’re not here. I miss you. I miss you so much. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you enough reason to stay.” He was finally crying. He let himself fall apart as the hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He was finally crying, six months later, when he had found it in himself to forgive me - and to forgive himself. “I still can’t believe you’re gone,” his voice was barely a whisper now. “*You promised*.