"How are you?"
"I'm fine."

"How are you?"
"I feel sick, sick like I'm dying. Dying from all of the things that used to make me happy. Your pictures on my computer are killing me. Your old letters are killing me. Every memory of me and you and everything we used to be, is killing me. But the thing that gets to me the most, the one thing that tops all other reason for tears: The fact that I can't talk to you about it. I can't tell you about how much I miss you or how much  I loved you or about all of the hard times. I can't ask you if you feel the same. I can't ask you if you want to try again. That's killing me, not having my best friend."