Nothing special there, just the same empty words, the boring conversations, the same empty shell, another damn run-of-the-mill. It genuinely makes me sick.
The pain of your absence is sharp and haunting, and I would give anything not to know it; anything but never knowing you at all (which would be worse).
It's tempting to linger in this moment, while every possibility still exists. But unless they are collapsed by an observer, they will never be more than possibilities.