I'm told I have OCD. I don't.

Yes, I like a cup on its coaster at just the right angle. I put my phone straight against table edges. If I scratch one arm, I have to do the same to the other, even though there's no irritation – well, unless I don't do so.

But no, I don't have OCD. I can tell because of my notebooks. They fill two shelves of my bookcase, and no two are the same. They differ in colour, size and thickness – and yes, that's what she said. If I had OCD, they'd all be exactly the same, wouldn't they? A uniform row of consistency to appease my need for order in a chaotic world. In an often chaotic mind, for that matter.

My favourite, however, is in the centre of the top row, so I suppose I might have the beginnings. Who knows? The book in question is the one I pick up at least once each day. I hold it almost reverentially. A light grip to ensure the cover isn't marked or bent. I open it slowly, each time, aware of the secrets it could hold. The experiences. The travels and troubles. Thoughts. Dreams. The world it could open up if the words were revealed to anyone.

Our life. Together.

Such as...

The night we met, when our shopping trolleys crashed into each other because we were both focussed on our phones. The awkward laugh. The connection. Kissing corner, which we christened after... christening it. Holidays to Krakow and Mexico. Matching tattoos, but not of names, because that would be silly. No. Gods of death, obviously. The laughs. Oh, the laughs. And the tears.

And...

A long life. You with your career and me in your shadow, but content to know you were achieving your dreams. Not that I wasn't doing the same, just, my dreams were not as grand. My needs not as desperate. No, that's the wrong word. You weren't desperate. It all came so naturally for you, there would be no other path for your life to take. And, I do a disservice to suggest you outshone me. I had my own successes. Where yours brought you fully into the public eye, mine kept me... not hidden... discrete. Our growing family. Two point four children, where the decimal was a crazy dog who alternated between madness and sleep, much like our youngest for much of her early years. If they weren't of different species, we'd say they were peas popped from the same pod.

The notebook, a treasure bought by you and gift wrapped for me. The first birthday I had while we were together. You already got me. Understood me. I always struggled to find gifts for you. For all your outgoing persona, you were an enigma even to me. You would smile, of course. You'd like the things I bought, of course. But, they were never as perfect as those you gave me. I don't know why. I'm insightful, aren't I? I see you, don't I? I suppose it would never really matter. The smile was genuine and it was enough. Perhaps it didn't touch you inside as much as you did me, but that's fine. You were ever a shimmer, while I was, I suppose, dimmer.

Yet, since you're gone – since you left me – since you were taken all those years ago – before I could fill the notebook with any of this, before it could happen at all, the pages are as blank my eyes as I watch the world pass me by.

I hold the notebook carefully, lest all it promised evaporate. A promise is simply a dream pretending it'll be real.

And I cry.