Six months ago today my world shattered — and it was never pieced back together. I have laughed. I have cried. I have lived since then, but I remain broken all the same. Not a day passes when my mother doesn’t cross my mind. Some might call it an exaggeration, especially with so much else going on in my life, who would have the time? but every waking moment, every breath I take, every tiny thing that happens to me, for a split 0.03 seconds I want to tell her. In those milliseconds the thought vanishes, reminding me that I can’t.

I used to be a firm believer in “this too shall pass.” Every heartbreak, every streak of bad luck — six months tops, I’d tell myself. And here I am, six months later, writing and admitting that this one is different. It’s been six months since I felt like I lost my life, and oh, what an ache — what a pain — to keep going. Six months since I’ve hoped each day to be reunited with her. Six months since boys stopped occupying my mind. Six months since every petty problem revealed itself as just that: petty.

It’s been six months since I learned what true heartbreak means.