I hate this separation. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I hate hanging on for every word that slips from his fingers through the wires to my screen. I hate analysing every nuance or imagined nuance of his speech. I hate it when he uses some words, and leaves others out, conspicuous by their absence, and I wonder if it's all over. I hate being this fragile. I hate wondering. I hate the fact that he'll think this is a problem and maybe it is and I just can't see it. I hate the urge to cry. And yes, ever so briefly, I hate him for his part in this. And then I hate myself for that thought.

Then I get over it.