It's been two months since he died,
I don't think about him everyday,
he comes back in flashes and I can almost hear him laugh,
and it gets hard to hold the tears but I do anyway,
I stop, close my eyes, take a deep breath and continue with my life.

It's not just missing him that hurts,
I think what keeps me sane is that the last thing I told him was
"'Congratulations! I'm so proud of you and I love you, see you in July"
But what makes me mad is that right now is July, and that promise fell through.
There's this logic part of me that knows it was not my fault,
that reminds me he was sick,
that he was trying his best, that he was taking his pills,
until one day he took them all.
There's this other part that keeps wondering what if?
What if I had called him randomly?
What if instead of July it had been May?
What if I had asked again how he was doing?
And what hurts the most I think, is that I'm a doctor, just like he was; I deal with life and death and pain, and I couldn't cure the pain he was feeling inside.
And I don't know if he knows that he took a part of all of us,
that killing himself killed us too.
But even when I hold back the tears because he is gone, I cant hold back the smile because he was part of my life,
and I guess that would've made him happy.