Kurt. Kurt, no, wake up. Wake up, Kurt.

Im right here, Blaine, Im right here.

Youre not Kurt. Wheres Kurt? I want Kurt!

Some days, Ill be fine. Today, I woke up screaming.

My husband will reach out, wrap me up in his arms and hold me to his chest, but its hard to do -- I kick out and try and tear his arms open, move his hands away from me. Bite, scratch, cry. I always cry. I cry so loud that I hear the neighbours next door get up, but they never knock anymore. The only time they did, they saw me sobbing in his arms and left again; I think it put them off.

Shh, Blaine, go to sleep. Ive got you. Please go to sleep.

Wheres Kurt?

I cant let go. My therapist told me its getting better because Im not having these dreams every night, but its not, its not, not really. Once a week, a month, a year -- it doesnt matter. I still carry its weight around with me. It still eats me up deep inside. Destroying me.

Kurts dead, honey. Im sorry. Take deep breaths with me, Blaine.

I know this, of course. I was there. I found him, unconscious in bath water with an empty bottle of pills on the floor. Hes been dead for almost fifteen years. Some days, Im fine. Today, the pain is so unbearable, so physical, that I pass out from it. And as I sleep again, with my husbands fingers stroking my hair, Kurt is there, smiling, with cold, dead eyes and water dripping from his hair.