Dear Nick,

Today is one of those days when it just hurts to breathe.

Friday the 8th was the one year anniversary of the last time I held you in my arms. I dropped you and your dad off at the airport, and I watched you walk into the terminal until I couldn't see you through the glare of the glass sliding doors.

I miss everything about you. Just when I think I've reached a point of acceptance, wham, it hits me again; everything I lost, all the dreams disappeared.

I went back to St. Louis the first weekend in May. I cried as the plane circled the CWE and I saw the school, the hospital, our building. I went to our old building, to our old bar, the park you loved. Every time I turned around, I expected you to be there, smiling, laughing, acting silly, waiting for me to run into your arms.

This time last year was so painful, so completely, utterly, horribly unbareable. Yet I'd go back to then again in a heartbeat, to when you were still here, when I could still hear your voice. And I'd do things different. I'd fly to VA to be with you. I'd climb into bed with you, hold you, cook for your family, cry with your mom. I'd do these things in person, instead of from a distance. I'd be there. I'd try to steal the cancer, make it take me instead. Not you. Oh Nick, not you. Of all the horrible people out there, people who do terrible things, and yet you, the best person I know, had to fall so ill.

God knew you were good. He wanted you for His own.

May 8th- the last time I huged you
May 10- the day I told you I loved you and you said that you loved me, too
July 22- the last time I heard your voice
August 2- the day Nick passed away
August 5-7- the days that broke me

Every day, every minute, and with every breath, I miss you and think about you.

Love,
Holly