You would not answer the phone. I called you time after time, because I knew you would never miss our anniversary. We had been together for three years. You seemed happier than usual that morning. You curled your long, brown hair, and your emerald eyes twinkled brighter than ever before.

The dinner I made you sat at the table; flickering candles were the only light in the room. The dinner I made was my fourth try, because I wanted to come close to the food you had at your restaurant. But you never tried it.

As the candle wax pooled on the table and my phone died from too many outgoing calls, I heard a knock on the door.

I collapsed at the words.  I stared ahead, lying on the ground, the candles still flickering in the dining room. After awhile, the officer left.  I laid there for days, not eating, not even bothering to get up to go to the bathroom.  I was a mess.  Visitors came to the door, but gave up after no one answered and left their flowers on the doorstep.  I could not breathe.  My life was stolen from me by a drunk driver too careless to walk home. 

The flickering flames finally extinguished. Months passed. I thought it was getting better; I thought I could go on with my life. Yet I find myself in the same spot by the door, exactly one year later, clutching the engagement ring that I planned to give you that night, hoping it will bring you back.