December 2, 2041.

I hate winter. So much.

You proposed to me in December. Under the Christmas lights, you got on one knee and asked me to marry you, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. Everything froze for a moment; it was almost like time stopped the second you asked the question.

I would give anything to go back to that time. Almost like we were still children, nothing mattered but us. I will never forget that look of pure love on your face. I got to wake up to that every day.

I know we were adults then, just as we are adults now. I know we weren't children. But you made me feel young. Every time I felt weary, whenever I felt like nothing was worth it, all you had to do was look over at me and smile. Suddenly, I felt alive again.

You stopped being able to move on your own. The disease steals every memory from you. Even the basic ones; how to eat, how to raise your head. Eventually, you'll forget how to swallow and your organs will shut down. Gruesome, isn't it? Almost makes me wish it was me going through this.

What would it be like if our roles were reversed? You watching from the side of the bed as I slowly waste away into nothing, a shell of my past self. What would you do?

Would you write me letters?  Would you sing me songs like you used to? 

What I wouldn't give to hear your voice again. It's been weeks since the last time you spoke. Your voice haunts me some days; I can hear echoes of the songs you used to sing in the quiet house. 

Traces of you still linger there. Your jacket is thrown over one of the chairs. I can't make myself move it. Your glasses rest on our nightside table from years ago, collecting dust. 

Is it so wrong of me to pretend that this is like any other disease? I keep holding out hope that you'll recover. I keep thinking that you'll wake up one day, just like you were years ago. I leave your jacket and glasses alone, hoping that somehow they'll bring you back to me. 

I hate winter. I miss you. I miss the way you used to hold me when I was cold. I miss the way you wrapped your hands around my waist when I tried to run into the snow. I miss how you used to bundle us in blankets as we watched every bad Hallmark movie and made fun of it. 

God. I miss you.