Once in a while, every little negative thing blends together and builds up and becomes almost unbearable. And then I come home and I see his sweatshirt, or I hear a certain song, or see a photo, and I realize it's not the little things. It's just me missing him. It's my terror of accepting he's gone, it's my fury and rage at how he left, and my frustration at not being able to ask him one more question. Maybe two. It's my fear of the years that come without him. It's the emptiness of what should have been for him and for our family. It's the sadness of missing him. It's just me missing him.