I don't know, really.

The cracks in my ceiling are the cracks in your floor.
Am I just imagining the bloodstain spreading across your shirt?
I could just pretend I don’t see your paling face, your desperate blue eyes that I can’t look into.
I stare out the window at the tempestuous landscape. The wind whips the trees into a frenzied dance. Shutters clap against the house applauding the apocalyptic show.

I don’t want you to hold my hands, because then you’d know how clammy they are. I am filled with silence. A throbbing silence that wants to speak… which might be the wrong thing to do.
I don’t think I’m imaging the way you look at me. But I could be misinterpreting what it’s saying.

I wish, I wish… so many things. I wish you would stroke my hair and tell me things I don’t know.
But sometimes, I wish I could gather up my hair… Gather up all my thick, moody hair and cut it off. With a resounding snip! Would it be like killing part of me, though?

I used to love the rain and the dark clouds. Now dark, gloomy days bring dark, gloomy thoughts and not one glimpse of you. Why does it always come back to you?
You’re standing right here looking at me. I can’t look at you. It wouldn’t be… fair?
You sigh a sigh that melts my heart, but not my resolve. I close my eyes.
Silence.
Then I hear you leave. Was this the last time?
I can only watch your retreating back through the window’s rain-soaked glass. Through the glass you look blurred, like you’re in a Monet painting. But the surrounding colours are too depressing to be a Monet...

I stand and gaze out the window. Half-wishing you would appear again. After a while, I turn away. Then I notice… a piece of paper on the floor. Anxious but eager, I pounce on it. Your handwriting greets me like an old friend. The message it contains brings tears of hope to my eyes. It says simply, “Wait for me. I will return.”