She's there we're here

I’m worried about her. She’s there we’re here and even if she was here, who am I kidding? How could I possibly help? What could I possibly say? She’s much better at it than I am. She’s the glue that’s held us together and the tinge of exactly what was missing to make things right. I remember how things were before her now. I remember the space, the gap and the silence. I remember the one man conversations, pathetic attempts desperately trying to avoid depression at all costs. They’re back now. I vaguely remember a time where the bitter cold was bearable, where the good times were all round, the laughs loud and the bonds strong. I remember driving home one night and thinking ‘so this is what it’s like to be happy’. I remember my hysteria… my inability to breathe and my uncontrollable sobbing. A fit of anguish from which I’d never thought I’d survive. I remember her patience and the calm and serenity I felt following the panic attack. It’s my turn to step up to the plate. It’s my turn to carry the weight. It’s my turn but how? What could I possibly say or do? She’s there and we’re here. Even if she was here, who am I kidding? How could I possibly help? What could I possibly say? She’s much better at it than I am.