I'd have to admit that there's little I know about it. I remember the morning, when I woke up and was looking at the piece of paper left for me. Handwritten, with black ink that seemed to be clumpy and came off dry in some places. I remember the coffee. Smooth and bitter, thick enough to lie on my tongue for minutes at end. I was not the ideal person to talk about loss. It was around 9 am and the sun was already bright. I was sitting at one end of the room, facing the window with this beautiful silver mug in my hand, staring out at the sunny mess that lay ahead of me. I remember the closet seemed burgundy in colour in the sunlight. I would not admit to hatred, to jealousy. I wanted nothing more than to die rather than read what she had to say, than to go out and talk of gut wrenching loss. I had a particularly effeminate photograph of him in my wallet. If I had gassed myself as I had wondered about, they would have found the picture. I didn’t want to embarrass you. Plus my coffee had never tasted that good. Never did after that either.