It has been five years today since my grandad died.
To be honest, I rarely think about him and I'm very ashamed of that. But now, just remembering the funeral has made me feel like someone had punched me in the stomach. I couldn't believe he was here, closed into that coffin. I couldn't stop crying.
I will never forgive myself for all the times I regretted spending the summer at his house or for not having gone immediately there when we were told he was dying. I hoped it was nothing. I hoped he would have survived.
I won't never forget that phone call. I woke up breathless. Then I heard my mother screaming: "No, no. He's dead. He's dead!".
At first, I didn't want to see his body. Then my mother found me sleeping on the couch where I used to sit to keep him company, just next to him. When I caressed his cheek, I felt like a part of me was gone with him, forever.
(Ok, now I'm definitely crying, so I'll be short. I hope nobody will see me.)

I don't know where he is now but I know he's not proud of me: when I was very little and refused to eat, he would get very angry. What would he have said, if he had been here, watching me slowly killing myself?
I hope he knows I can't help it.
I hope he will forgive me for being so bad and rude with his wife, with his daughter, with everyone.
I hope he'll never discover that, just before that call, I was holding my breath with a pillow on my face.
I hope he doesn't feel guilty for my illness, because the only responsible is me.
I hope he knows how much I miss him, even though I don't show it.
I love you, granpa, you'll stay forever in my heart.