Three years sounds like enough time for someone to understand what happened.
It isn’t.
Some mornings, I open my eyes and instinctively reach for my phone before remembering there will never be another message from him.
No late-night question.
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some terrible meal he was strangely proud of making.
No short text asking if I could transfer him $20 because, somehow, he had already spent everything he had.
Then reality comes rushing back.
Caleb is gone.
Some days, that truth arrives gently.
Other days, it feels as though I am hearing it for the very first time.
He was only 19 when the accident happened.
So young that half of his belongings were still in my house.
