Don't make it sound like that. Like some ordinary sort of grief. It's not like that. They say time heals all wounds, but that presumes the source of the grief is finite. Over. This is a fresh wound every day.

“Henry patted Charlotte’s shoulder anxiously. “Would you like a cool cloth? What…”

“Simon's dark eyes were serious. "I trust you," he said "I don't trust him." He …”

“But you hate poetry!Yes, but you make me want to write it.”

“You're so easy to tease. And yes, your friend is just fine. Well, except that h…”