I see you every time I look down at my jagged fingernails, inspecting those rare thin lines of white that haven’t been bitten to oblivion from sheer habit. I see you peering out at me through the small rectangular window, beckoning me to join you on the other side of the classroom door, waiting impatiently for the last five minutes until the bell finally starts to ring. Sometimes I can feel the faintest touch brushing ever so slightly against my fingers as I press my fingertips and stroke my bow across the strings, the music to an invisible dance, hands outstretched as if trying to grasp something out of sight, like trying to dance to an incomprehensible tune. Those are times you’re never quite with me, and yet We feel the closest. I can almost hear your clumsy hands tapping out confident but meaningless notes on the piano keys, loud but muffled, like you’re behind a thick curtain. Sometimes, on a Friday evening, I can feel your hand in mine as you talk things that may not have mattered before, but do now. I listen with the fervent desperation of a drowning man, afraid to lose your grip. On the fifth day of May, a cup fell from its perch where it was drying on a high rack, down to the cold slate ground where it promptly broke on impact, three thousand one hundred and twenty five pieces total. It was then that I truly knew you were gone.