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It was ten minutes before the accident, and I just told my boyfriend that I love him. He's on his way to my house, and I'll see him soon.

It's been five seconds since the accident, and I'm getting worried. The distance between our houses is only five minutes.

It's been twenty minutes since the accident, and I hear sirens blaring their way down my street. I open the door and run to follow their path.

It's been forty-five minutes since the accident, and I'm watching the ambulance pull away from the mangled remains of what was once a red sports car.I didn't see the victim, but I don't need to. I've seen that car enough times. I vaguely register my phone ringing in my pocket.

It's been an hour since the accident, and I'm pulling into the hospital parking lot. I'll see him soon.

It's been three hours since the accident, and I've finally stopped crying. A doctor comes to tell us that he's alright. Something is said of head trauma, but I haven't been listening since his third word. The doctor invites his brother back. I'll see him soon.

It's been four hours since the accident, and he's finally waking up. I smile and ask how he's feeling. My heart sinks when he asks who I am.

It's been two days since the accident, and I'm helping his brother take him to the car. He still doesn't remember me.

It's been two an a half weeks since the accident, and I'm losing hope. I don't think he's going to remember me. I can practically feel my heart crack as he pushes me out of an embrace. I hide my tears until I walk to my bedroom and pick up a familiar knife.

It's been a month since the accident, and I've given up.

It's been two months since the accident, and he's glaring at me as I make lunch. Vaguely, I wonder why he's still here. Why he's torturing me like this.

It's been two months and a day since the accident, and I took my brother's pistol last night.

It's been two months and two days since the accident, and today would have been our fifth anniversary. It seems like the perfect time. I wrote him a note and left it on his dresser as he slept. I hear shuffling, and I know I have to do it now. I barely feel the cold metal of the barrel as it slides into my mouth. I take a momentary pause to listen to the quick, bounding footsteps in the hall. I recognise the footfalls; it's not my brother coming for his gun. My finger trembles on the trigger as he bursts into the room, crying my name. Hesitantly, I lower the gun. I cry as he holds me.

...

It's been a year since the accident, and I smile as I thread our fingers together. His breath tickles my ear as he whispers his love. I'm blushing as I return the sentiment. I glance down as he leans over to connect our lips, and the last thing I see before closing my eyes is the golden ring around my finger. I'm glad he's back. He was late, as usual, but I got to see him after all.

Description
It was ten minutes before the accident, and I just told my boyfriend that I love him. He's on his way to my house, and I'll see him soon.

It's been five seconds since the accident, and I'm getting worried. The distance between our houses is only five minutes.

It's been twenty minutes since the accident, and I hear sirens blaring their way down my street. I open the door and run to follow their path.

It's been forty-five minutes since the accident, and I'm watching the ambulance pull away from the mangled remains of what was once a red sports car.I didn't see the victim, but I don't need to. I've seen that car enough times. I vaguely register my phone ringing in my pocket.

It's been an hour since the accident, and I'm pulling into the hospital parking lot. I'll see him soon.

It's been three hours since the accident, and I've finally stopped crying. A doctor comes to tell us that he's alright. Something is said of head trauma, but I haven't been listening since his third word. The doctor invites his brother back. I'll see him soon.

It's been four hours since the accident, and he's finally waking up. I smile and ask how he's feeling. My heart sinks when he asks who I am.

It's been two days since the accident, and I'm helping his brother take him to the car. He still doesn't remember me.

It's been two an a half weeks since the accident, and I'm losing hope. I don't think he's going to remember me. I can practically feel my heart crack as he pushes me out of an embrace. I hide my tears until I walk to my bedroom and pick up a familiar knife.

It's been a month since the accident, and I've given up.

It's been two months since the accident, and he's glaring at me as I make lunch. Vaguely, I wonder why he's still here. Why he's torturing me like this.

It's been two months and a day since the accident, and I took my brother's pistol last night.

It's been two months and two days since the accident, and today would have been our fifth anniversary. It seems like the perfect time. I wrote him a note and left it on his dresser as he slept. I hear shuffling, and I know I have to do it now. I barely feel the cold metal of the barrel as it slides into my mouth. I take a momentary pause to listen to the quick, bounding footsteps in the hall. I recognise the footfalls; it's not my brother coming for his gun. My finger trembles on the trigger as he bursts into the room, crying my name. Hesitantly, I lower the gun. I cry as he holds me.

...

It's been a year since the accident, and I smile as I thread our fingers together. His breath tickles my ear as he whispers his love. I'm blushing as I return the sentiment. I glance down as he leans over to connect our lips, and the last thing I see before closing my eyes is the golden ring around my finger. I'm glad he's back. He was late, as usual, but I got to see him after all.