Shit. A is unwell. As in the non-natural secretion of blood unwell. The trapdoor has fallen out of the bottom of my stomach but my lunch is still sitting there like lead. I've got the fidgets. I've got the chills. But there's nothing I can do but sit here and think about how I can live without him, but I don't want to. I want to hold him and make it all better.

If you want me, I'll be somewhere else.