I caved in and called him. I was going utterly batty sitting here, every single minute feeling like a tearing, torturing eternity. Only one more day till we meet but it feels so damn far away.

I called him, partly because of the paranoia that he might not be alone, but mostly for some semblence of normalcy. And, strangely enough, I just wanted to know how Total Defence Day went and whether it turned out as glitchy as predicted. (It did.) My heart literally heaved in relief when he said hello like any other time. It took a few minutes before getting really awkward.

And then I realised what was killing me about the phonecall. In part, it was the intense effort required for me to sound casual. But mostly, it was the fact that I couldn't talk with him as we'd always done. I couldn't do the verbal diarrhoea, couldn't download my entire thought pattern, couldn't put all the words down unfiltered and raw and honest.

I couldn't have him as the one person who truly understands me at the end of the day.

I couldn't do the one thing that I loved most about him. I couldn't talk to him. And that guts me. I could feel he didn't want to tell me things either. Sure, I knew how his day went, where he went for dinner, that he was going to bed soon. But I didn't know how he felt about anything. Only that he's "pretty much alright."

Where has he gone and why has he gone away? We were on the same path up to very, very recently. Why the sudden departure? I thought we wanted the same things. I guess either I was wrong or he was misleading me. There are other possibilities, but they are ugly; when I think of them, fear cuts me sharp and hard.

"Don't you love farce?
My fault, I fear.
I thought that you'd want what I want.
Sorry, my dear."

~Send in the Clowns, Stephen Sondheim~