I’m taking Midol, not because I’m PMSing, but because everything hurts—mental, emotional, physical—especially the fact that my boyfriend Kevin isn’t coming back. Because he’s dead. He’s dead.

I keep telling myself that, but it’s hard when he’s saying, “Quit saying that. I’m here, Icey. I’m here.” Part of me thinks I’ve cracked: I’ve gone mad with a dead man. It’s beyond belief, so we call it crazy. Yet, it’s everything I’ve always believed—the tidbits I tasted and the reasons I went to psychics. What happens when faith, reality, and miracles merge?

I resist—because it’s so unreal. I give in—because it’s ecstasy. The man I love more than any person in this entire world, the one who took me from my theory of how a relationship should be to experiencing the ideal with him, yeah, that guy, he died. But then, he didn’t.

Sure, his body did, although I never saw it. But his essence, personality, and crazy-ass words and ways, they all just stepped into another dimension. He tells me it’s just like he’s in another room.

That’s kind of how it feels—like he said it felt different the first time I was in New Mexico without him—like I was further away than Ohio, even though it was all just a phone call away.

Now, there are no phone calls. I can’t see him or hear his beautiful, masculine voice. Yet I tell you what he tells me: he’s here.