Two weeks since he died. On my way to Amsterdam, then home. Soon this trip to Prague will only be a memory of numbing cold and grey skies, golden theatres and smokey cafes, and turning out the light every night and crying when I realise he is gone. It is an odd pain, distant and unreal and then so present and biting. Like knowing you have lost something so important, without being able to put it into words. The only man who will love me so unquestionably is gone. Every light moment of laughter and wonder has been tinged with something else, and there is no one to comfort my heart, so I must keep searching for wonder and hope that the crying someday stops.