I would like to say that this weekend reminded me of him, but then again, they all do. In everything that happens I can always find some kind of reflection of what he was, what we were, if I only try hard enough. When I'm down I remember how safe and protected I felt in his arms, when I'm happy I suddenly remember he's not by my side anymore, and when I'm angry I want to scream at the world for making me care too much about the most stupid little things. I never did with him.
When we came back from Paris I was convinced that everything would return to its normal state, that the amazing time we spent there could never continue as anything more than a deceitful memory, but I was wrong. He said I wasn't sure if I really loved you before we went away, holding my little hands in his. But now I am.
I only understand it now, but as strange as it sounds, that was probably our death sentence. Up till then I had tried so hard to be good enough for him, never actually knowing if I could, but his reassurance only planted another sort of doubt in my mind.