I sit in the sun, reminiscing about her voice. “Bunny,” she said. “Yes, my luv,” I replied, eager to know what she would say next. “Bunny, that’s it.” “Perfect,” I replied amusingly.

Let alone now, it has always been a problem for me throughout my life if someone doesn’t call me by my name. I made that clear near the elevator at the university. “You better call me by a name.”

Observantly, I notice how nobody calls me by my name now that she’s not here. I long for her cute voice—slightly high-pitched, filled with affection—“Bunny.” I hear that and want to drop everything to give her my full attention. Now, most of the time, she has nothing to say afterward, but sometimes she does. I don’t mind finding out later.

Venturing into those reminders again, I find myself empty. The water bottle, I have no intention of filling it. The sofa, even when I’m sleeping on it. The cigarette boxes, even if they’re filled up.

Everything I touch, everyone I talk to, everything I read. Empty. At this point, I won’t mind even if it’s a drop of water in the bottle, and she gave it to me. Even if she only places her tiny little finger on my head, and nothing else. Even if she gives me a box with only one cigarette in it, provided we can smoke it together.

Yielding to the inevitable, I pick up the bottle and fill it. I pick up my box and smoke a few. I try to accept this blanket on my body even if she’s not here. It’s difficult, but it’s a test. And best believe I’m fucking good at tests.

On this oddly sunny afternoon, there’s nothing more I want than to be sitting here on this balcony, knowing she’s getting ready to leave the house with me. She’s putting on her makeup, doing her hair. I want to be impatient again but not let her know—and let her take her time.

Underneath all these dilemmas, contradicting thoughts, wishes and wants, nostalgia, and acceptance, I find myself empty—waiting for her love to fill me up again.