I've spent the night concocting fake letters to my therapist as a concept for an art project. A coquettish ploy for validation, vindication without unpacking the heaviest loads.

My fear the depression is back, or never really left. The agony of watching my Love crumble at the hands of his own brain and his apathetic complicity in his brain's self-destruction. And by the way, I'm gay. Have a nice holiday.

Some email. But much easier than over the phone. No pauses, breaths, hedges, deflect. Fear of rejection runs deep, core to my design. The draft sits silently, relegated to the bin.

So much work. So much weight. Here's hoping my foundations hold until he's back.