This is the first time I have attempted to put into words how I felt on Sept. 11, 2001.

For the most part, I have always feared breaking down because it hit way too close to home.

Way too close.

That morning had started normally enough.

My fiancee – of only two days, I proposed on Sept. 9 – hopped on New Jersey Transit in Aberdeen, N.J., to make it to her early-morning class at New York University. I woke up a little bit later and got dressed for an interview at a newspaper in Middletown, N.Y.

I was in the process of moving from Santa Barbara, Calif., to New Jersey to be with Danielle, so I had to find a new job so her parents didn’t think I was a complete hack who wouldn’t support their little angel.

I originally had planned to catch the same train as Danielle, but decided to catch some extra sleep. Plus the train that would take me from NYC through the Trade Center and up to Middletown didn’t leave until noon.

What happened over the next eight hours gave me clarity on what’s important in life, while also eternally connecting her parents and me.

I was driving to the same train station when I heard the news that one of the Twin Towers had been hit. Thinking that it must be minor, I continued on, parked the car, put on my suit jacket and bought tickets. Then news of the second tower being hit played over the loud speaker. All rides were indefinitely canceled.

What? Is it that serious? Without a TV, I couldn’t picture it.

But, one question kept returning: How was Danielle? Had her class gone on a trip anywhere near the Trade Center? Had anything else been blown up?

I reached for my cell phone. Her number was busy. I called again. Busy. Again. Busy.

I ran back to my car and raced over to her mom’s work. She greeted me with a hug, a kiss and that I’m-not-going-to-show-you-I’m-worried-but-I-am-worried look that I read right through. We called Danielle’s father. He was already on his way home.

Both of them tried calling Danielle. Nothing.

Thoughts started popping into my head, “Is she OK?” … “Is she hurt?” … “Is she dead?”

The last thought made me break down and I had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I had to be strong, for her. I had to think positive thoughts.

This went on for three hours … and then the phone rang.

It was Danielle. She sounded distant. She sounded distracted. She didn’t sound like herself.

We all started asking her questions, the most important being, “Are they letting you out of the city yet?”

“No,” she answered.

And then the phone went dead.

Two more hours of silence.

One of my calls to her got through. She said she had been told there would be two or three trains allowed to make trips back to New Jersey and that she should be on one of them.

Forty-five more minutes of silence.

The phone rang. She was about a 30-minute drive away.

Her parents proclaimed they were going to pick her up and that I should stay at their house to answer phone calls from worried family and friends.

I was a little hurt. I wondered if Danielle would like to see me as well.

But then I thought about it. They had accepted me as a member of their family and I would be their voice. That was a huge compliment. They saw my concern. They saw my love. They saw me.

When Danielle arrived back at the house she looked white. And for a Brazilian, that’s hard to do.

She brushed past me and hollered, “I need to shower. I have to get some of this stuff off of me.”

I decided to give her a few minutes alone. She needed them more than I needed her at that moment.

About 30 minutes later, she appeared in her pajamas and said that she was going to bed … at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I followed her, not knowing what her reaction to me would be. I just held her and let her cry herself to sleep.

Little did she know, I did the same.

I never went back to California to pack up my apartment. Danielle needed me too much.

I didn’t want to let her out of my sight.

And I still don’t let her out of a two-mile radius for the most part. And that now goes for my little boy, too.

Not because I am controlling, but because I don’t want to feel like I did on Sept. 11, 2001.

It hurts too much to remember.