I wanted to get away, to know him far away from me, far enough that even the thought of him wouldn’t reach me. When I decided to push him out of my life, I knew I was going to carry him inside me for a while. But I wasn’t expecting my lungs to burn when I breathe, or to wish to kill a part of me. I didn’t know anybody who had died until that moment. I never mourned for anyone. And now I was carrying around with me a dead body that nobody was seeing, nobody was in mourning for. Just me. Not surprisingly, I had become confused: who actually died? Then, time learned to pass by. I let myself be taught how to stay put and let it pass over me. I was always thinking about him though, sometimes with anger, other times wondering how I was capable of such submission. Never with nostalgia. Because I was afraid to miss him. Then I forgot how it is to carry him around. I forgot how missing him felt like. I regained my boring freedom. It’s been four years. I talked about him as my grea