and that still baffles me. Five years ago my brother started his senior year in high school. That summer we had the best family holiday ever, just the four of us, visiting towns and eating ice cream and goofing around at the pool. When school started again, we went back to our usual routines: my brother and I got up, brushed our teeth together and ate breakfast together. Some mornings we’d joke around, other mornings we’d be too tired to say much. But at least we did it together. We came home together and nagged about stupid people or talked about our day while eating our favorite snacks.
Five years later and I can’t even remember what it feels like to eat breakfast with him. I always eat it alone. I get up and brush my teeth by myself, go down and leave for uni by myself. There’s nobody home when I get back, my parents are still at work. There’s no jokes in the morning, no smiles when I leave, nobody to eat snacks with.
And the only reason why I don’t cry every morning when I eat breakfast alone, is because I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have him here. I hate myself for it, more and more as the days and years go by. See, time doesn’t heal, time makes you forget. And no matter how hard I want to remember, I can’t. And that, that is heartbreaking.