It hurts so much. It wasn't like that time I fell off of my bike. It wasn't like that time I got punched in the face. It wasn't like that at all. It was in my heart and my head. I touched his favorite chair, on the balcony. It was warm from soaking up the sun’s strong rays. I traced its grooves. The house is empty without his laugh. It's a void compared to the bustling streets outside. I imagined what he would say to me if he were here. How he would scold me for sulking all day. I found comfort in it. It didn't last. I went into his room and sat in his closet. I grabbed the sleeve of a blue shirt he loved to wear. I held them up to my nose. His smell came to me with a rush of memories. I remembered the raw sounds from his guitar and the beautiful melodies that rang out throughout his house. That guitar was old yet still reliable, giving me a sense of comfort and security. I began to play the guitar, its grieving cries flowing through the house. I cried. It hurts so much.