My therapist used to ask why I always smiled when I talked about you, especially when the things I talked about weren't happy at all.

I really don't know, I'd say.

She'd tilt her head and watch me carefully. I'd hold my breath because the words didn't exist yet.

It hurt too much to say them so I could only do the one thing I've always done: smile. Smile because it's okay. Smile because the world is how it should be.

When I walked out of therapy, I didn't smile for the rest of the day. My mouth didn't turn up at the corners for anything.

Only in therapy did I make the effort to show that I was remotely okay.

Now, as I lay in bed, the words become real. In this empty house, something comes into existence.

I miss you.

My mouth doesn't threaten to put on a mask. My lips know better than to try and lie anymore.

I want to be where you are. I want to be with you.

I never said these words because they didn't exist in my mind yet. My mouth, god bless her, wanted to save me from the pain of knowing.

With no one around, no one to witness the words as they come into existence, I begin to panic.

Tears fall from my eyes because I didn't anticipate the pain of seeing. The all-encompassing pain of believing that you are no longer around.