I haven’t cried yet. Because it doesn’t feel real. I’m worried the day I cry; is the day it becomes real. That he won’t come back. That this whole thing wasn’t some sick joke. And yet, deep down, I feel that I’m crying. Deep down, I know. Yet, I still cannot cry.

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But the ache is still there.

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I read somewhere, that when you worry, you die twice. And I try not worry.

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I try not to worry when the family birthday dinner turns into an unintentional funeral. I try not to worry when my step mum falls asleep, slumped over the computer, the blaring screen imprinted with dozens of missing articles. I try not to worry when every conversation reverts to the same questions, over and over, never-ending. Yet,

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I worry.

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That the 250 days will turn into 300. Then into 500. And then…

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Nothing. They’ll turn into nothing. A blur. A memory. A forgotten counter, stacking up the days until the inevitable truth.

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But for now, it’s 250 days. And tomorrow will be 251. And the next 252. And I will keep counting. Even though, I don’t know when I should stop.