It's funny, isn't it, how losing someone you love never goes away entirely.
A person you're close to dies, and you spend a long time, months and months maybe, not caring about anything, not wanting to talk to anyone, not really living in this world at all except for the barest physical necessities. You live in a strange almost deathly netherworld in which not caring about anything almost means not seeing or being aware of anything.
Then, almost without wanting to, slowly, little by little, you come back to life. You start registering things again. You start hearing people talking to you and remembering what they say. A bit at a time, you start responding to people again, and noticing the world around you and expecting things again. At first this makes you feel strangely guilty, and almost as if you're losing touch with the person you lost. But it's inevitable, and it's what's supposed to happen.
It may take a long time, but eventually, you find you care about and are interested in things again, and you realise that life isn't just something that carries on without you, but sweeps you along. And all this is how it's supposed to work. We're not supposed to let go of love easily or well. It's supposed to stick with us. And at the same time, we're supposed to eventually get back into life and keep living it, and this honours the person you lost.
And another thing that's supposed to happen is that you're supposed to sometimes suddenly get struck with the loss again, out of the blue. And it strikes you very sharply, that gut-clenching feeling, that the person you loved is gone and won't be coming back. You'll never be able to finish your conversation, or show him the book you're reading, or ask him that question you meant to ask. It won't last, but it is a reminder that love is a real thing and won't ever go away.