I hardly think of him anymore.

He doesn't cross my mind when I walk in the park; the same park we used to walk in, together. I don't think of him when I drink red wine and the color it turned his lips. Nothing comes into my mind when I notice a field of wildflowers. He used to pick those and set them around the house, knowing they were my favorite.

No, I've cut him out of my life. Almost.

Hermione remarks on how well I've dealt with it. She looks at me with those eyes. Those damn, sympathetic eyes. Like she knows. I smile and thank her, kiss her on the cheek and then send her on the way. Sometimes I think she doesn't really believe me, but I've learned to play the part well. She's never seen, she'll never actually know that no, I have not healed.

Ron tries, in his own way. He smiles slightly, claps me on the back and says "Alright mate?" in that way of his. I smile back, assure him everything is fine. He is much easier to convince. He wants to believe that if I can kill Voldemort, I can beat anything, deal with anything.

But how do you continue knowing that the one you love most is dead?

I removed my ring a while ago. No need for a reminder of him every time I look down. Except that plan is flawed, because yes, every time I look down, I think of him.

I have studied my wrists countless times. I have seen the delicate bones, moving under a paper-thin layer of skin. I see the blue veins, so fragile, prominent and popping against the white of my skin. I wonder if he saw the same thing when he looked down that night. Did his wrists look like mine? Did his itch like mine do when I think of him?

Because only my wrists remind me of him now. When I look down and see them, I think of him. I wish I didn't. I wish I could remember him for the smiles and the laughter, for the kisses and caresses. But I can't. All I can remember is how I last saw him- pale, so pale and in a pool of blood, wrists slit.

I wonder where the itch comes from, where it starts. It only happens when I think of him cutting them, spilling his lifeblood onto the floor. Didn't he know blood was precious? Did his wrists itch when he sliced himself open? Did they know what he was going to do? Do wrists even know when someone is thinking about cutting? I've pondered these questions so many times.

When I look down, I wonder why he did it. What was so intoxicating about that black abyss that I couldn't compare? Did he smile when he got to the train station? Did his pain finally leave?

His pain. His secret pain that not even I knew about. Not even me, the one closest to him. I was his husband. I was the one he should have trusted above all others. I would have known about pain. Pain and I, we were birds of a feather. What wouldn't I know about pain?

Apparently he didn't think so. His pain was too great that he couldn't stand it anymore. I guess he never gave a thought to the pain I'd feel when he left. I guess he thought I could cope.

And I guess I have. As the papers scream at least weekly, I have been so very brave. But what they don't see is the way I reach for him in the night. The way I clutch his shirt, his pillow, searching for his scent. The way I hurt.

Everyone is still so focused on his pain that they don't notice mine. Maybe someday I too will give into the itch.