They say it takes a year and a day to come to terms with the death of a loved one, to accept that they will not come back. They are gone. A year. Three hundred and sixty-five days in the old lunar-based calendar. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours over which you experience every part of life without them. Birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, special occasions, mundane occurrences. Every single gorramn thing. Eventually that day comes around again. A day which, until a year ago, held absolutely no significance whatsoever, but is now the most difficult and painful twenty-fours hours you will ever experience. Counting down the hours, minutes and seconds until the exact moment it happened, when the universe tore out your heart and tossed away like so much trash. And then it's over. The clock strikes twelve. The cosmos goes on existing. Cinderella comes home from the ball. You keep breathing. You suck in a lungful of air. Another. Another. Your treacherous heart beats within your chest. Your blood flows through your chest. The filthy stench of life clings to you, coating your skin. It oozes from every pore, tainting you with its terribly delible stain. You wake the next morning, knowing that the hard part is over and the healing can begin. But what healing? You have no wounds, no illness, nothing a doctor can sterilise, stitch or medicate. You have only the memories and the uniquely incurable pain they bring. They tell you that "it gets easier with time". What, I ask? The unbearable empty aching within? The cold and lonely nights? The knowledge that you have known true happiness and never will again? Or even the knowledge that you still might once more? They hold no answers for you, only hushed tones and pitying looks. My year and a day has passed and so my longest journey yet begins - life without you.