Last week, little of what I wanted to do got done. I spent most of the week in a depressive funk, and that same amount of time really really missing Bryce.

There’s so much I want to say to him right now. Things about my daily life, questions I want to ask him. I want to hear what plans he has for his own writing. I’m doing Camp Nano this April, and I like to think he’d have joined in, though even if he hadn’t, he’d still have encouraged me in it.

His parents are selling and giving away various items of Bryce’s, and I’ve inherited some of his clothing. Even though it was washed before it came to me, it spent long enough in his apartment prior to moving that it bears his scent. Most of the scent’s faded from the clothing from sitting out on my bed, but whenever I unfold another shirt to put on each day, I’m reminded of times I went over to hang out with Bryce at his place. I recall times we went out together to eat places, or to hang out with our writing and nurse beverages from the coffee shop in the bookstore up at the mall.

Sometimes I’d take my crocheting over to his place, instead of my writing, and we’d sit and crochet and chat or watch movies from Netflix. The one November he was up here for Nanowrimo, I spent a number of different, non-consecutive days at his place writing. We’d stop at a dollar store and pick up snacks and drinks and write late into the night, and sometimes another sometimes-writer friend would join us.

I could talk to Bryce about literally anything. Me being trans, writing, my cancer, his health issues, our daily lives, parents, siblings, whatever. Bryce was wise, and had good common sense. He could help me sort things out if I needed help understanding something. He wouldn’t put up with my crap if I tried to prevaricate; I don’t know how he always knew when I was trying to fudge things, but he did, and he kept me honest. Honestly, I sought advice from him more often than I sought it from my mom because I could trust Bryce’s not to be biased, and it never came with an agenda—unless he was helping me fix something with my writing or work out plot points. He also wouldn’t put up with my digging for dirt on things. He’d say his piece, and once he was done, that was it, and he wouldn’t discuss it any more. I don’t often try to stretch the truth or dig for drama, but he kept me from doing it even the little bit I do, and I appreciated that. Bryce taught me how to be a better person by resisting my bad habits.

Last week, I missed him a lot. I still miss him this week. However, I think I’m coming up out of the funk I was in all last week. I care about things. Yesterday, I got out of my apartment to socialize, went up to the VA and hung out with a couple other friends who have a kiosk up there to sell things to Vets. Spent hours talking and having fun. By the time we left, I’d decided to start looking at the job listings at the VA to see if I can get a job up there. This is something I’m sure Bryce would have encouraged.

In a way, I wish he was here, but in another, knowing how he would have had to live if the surgery he’d had had been successful, I’m glad he’s not. I would never want him to be in pain or misery, and he would have been if he’d survived. Not to say I’m glad he’s dead, but I don’t think his life would have been very happy or fulfilling had the surgery been a success. If there was one person I believe deserved happiness and a fulfilling life, it was Bryce.

I miss him.