Try to use all of the words in a story: plastic bottle, hockey puck, dirty handkerchief, crumpled note, unhinged door.

My fingers fumbled over the crumpled note.

I unfolded it and smoothed it out as much as I could. I gulped and my eyes danced along the graceful writing on the page. The words became a blur as tears welled in my eyes. A single tear fell from my face and stained the page. I brushed away the tears and carefully folded the note. Not today, I thought. Not today, I won't cry.

The dirty handkerchief still lay on the table. I didn't want to move it. What if he came back, and asked where his handkerchief was? I didn't want to toss his lucky handkerchief. I didn't even want to lay a finger on it. Every time I touched something that belonged to him, a sick feeling washed over me. I felt like I was being called to the very depths of hell.

You should pick this up...my brain nagged. But when I tried to touch anything, my heart ached. I didn't want to throw him away. What would happen if I did? What if I forgot about him? I balled a fist and punched the wall, quickly yanking my hand back and pressing into my sore knuckles. Dammit.

"He's not coming back," I murmured, gazing at the dirty, tiled floor. I lifted my hand and cautiously picked up the plastic bottle he used to take in his lunches. Shaking, I carried it to the trash bag and tossed it. I quickly swept the handkerchief in the bag as well, my heart aching, my stomach churning, my eyes burning with tears.

That night, I walked down the hall of my house and let my eyes peer longingly at the room he used to slumber in. His room had no door; after we moved in together, we had always planned to put this bright green door with rather intricate designs in. But it was too big for the doorway, and we'd never bothered to fix it. We'd left the unhinged door leaning against the foot of his bed.

I silently slipped into his room and curled up in his soft sheets. I curled my fingers around the loose end of the pillowcase and breathed in his scent. The tears dried as I buried my face in his pillow. I slipped in and out of consciousness several times, but at last I sat up and gazed in the mirror.

It was as if he was sitting on the bed next to me, reading. Like we always used to. Sit on his bed and read. I miss those days. We were so alive. So young, so passionate. Nothing mattered but each other.

But then he died.

Go on with bravery and love.