I am holding on but I don’t know for how long more. I am tired, I am scared, I am sad.

I am so, so tired.

You were sleeping in my bed/ I was on my couch (in the other room), curled up in a blanket, refusing to hold you for warmth.

It was May, Spring. It was supposed to get warmer here in this rose town, May being more summer than spring, more spring than winter. Alas, it was still so cold. And I cried. And you were still fast asleep.

The sobs came in waves. Each stronger than the last.

The sobs crept up like shadows, like the gradual turning of heads in a crowded room towards a spotlight. It was a strange feeling, because my body seemed to realise I was going to cry before my brain would. I’d catch my breath and my face would suddenly distort itself. My eyes would pull back and my mouth would overturn. Then the wave would hit and then the tears would start.

I remember being curled up and torn - did I want you to find me like this or not?

I guess I didn’t have to decide because you were still fast asleep by the time I stopped shivering.

I crawled back into bed and there you were. You blinked your sleepy eyes awake and pulled me close, reaching out, eyelids dropping again but hand on my arm, on my thigh, on my stomach, holding me in your unconscious.

Then the feeling unfurled in me - the feeling of intrusion and trespassery. Your hands touched her body the same way, pulled her in the same way. The places in which your hands rested burned with shame and strangeness. You were hers first. You are hers. It felt so wrong. It feels so wrong.

I grabbed my water bottle and jumped out of my bed and you asked sleepily, “Where are you going?”

I said, “Getting water.” I rushed out the door, shutting it. I went to my kitchen and spent a few seconds staring at the wall.

When will the sobs come?

I waited.

They came.

Again, each wave stronger than before - so disgustingly desperate. I struggled to stay silent, I clamped my mouth shut and heaved.

You know that feeling when you’re crying and your body can’t help but wrack itself so violently and so uglily you can’t help but cry out like a wounded animal?

I muzzled myself; I clamped my mouth shut.

I gave myself ten minutes, then fifteen. Running the tap. Hoping my body would stop shaking. Asking myself to be quiet, quiet.

Then I walked to the bathroom, switched the light on. Looked at myself.

Then I got back into bed. And you were still fast asleep.