A blank, white, blinding screen. Behind me, he sleeps.I’m reminded of Sarah Kane’s 4.48 Psychosis when the young playwright decides to kill herself while her lover sleeps, writes of it, then hangs herself.Despite my looming deadline, I’m not sure I want to go quite this far to kill writer’s block.Ha, kill.

I remember the melancholy when he left that night I fell asleep and he could not.Waking up from lack of embrace throughout the night. I wonder if it would be a similar sensation to being so sad that I might want to die.

I don’t think he matters enough for that to be the case, somehow. The term ‘lover’ can be a little misleading in this way.

I turn off the computer, carefully creep back to bed. Stare at the ceiling. Wish for morning, as I long for coffee.

He stirs, I close my eyes, pretending to sleep.

I wait for his arm around my waist.

Instead I feel him move, shuffle for a bit, walk, the door then closes behind him.Followed by the front door.

Then his car pulls away from the curb.

I sigh.

How can I feel so much nothing for something and yet miss them when I didn’t have a choice in their absence?Makes no sense.

I feel the sinking in my chest, lowering stretched-like into my stomach down to the very pit of it.A heaviness remains for a time, and I curl myself into a ball, as though encircling the fast-emptying space where something before once was.I absorb it into my very core, let the feeling of the unnecessary seep into my pores like oil.

I long to lay there, indulge in the pain. But I knew this could not be wasted. Clutching my blanket, I drag myself up out of warm melancholy, resisting the urge to touch the space where he once was, to settle in front of my eerie, tousled reflection on an inactive screen. I turn on the monitor to be welcomed back with cheerful white.

I type.

It flows for hours.

The words bleed out of me until the heart-wound begins to scab.

And then numb.

I wearily get up, cramped from inactivity, albeit feeling a little lighter than before, and sink back into my now-cold bed, and curl up into myself, detoxed of all that was, and immediately succumb to sleep.I dream of his smile between kisses, walking on a bridge together, the turn and confession that he cares so much he is scared I will leave. I laugh, shake my head and hold his face in my hands, staring into hopeful possibility.

It could never be enough. I want his fucking heart to break when I’m not around. I want him to care when we’re apart. But it seems to be the opposite with him. It’s as though if I wasn’t in his peripheral or direct vision somehow, that I’m no longer of interest. If we aren’t fucking or at some event with me ornamental and on his arm, then I am of no use

In spite of this, I fall in love every single day. With everything. Smells, sights, the way people talked to babies, a stranger humming in the street, birds fighting over food on the pavement.

It’s euphoric and free, and provides me with the hope in this world that I don’t seem to get from him. But in order to maintain some kind of balance, this rose-coloured view of the world would need to come crashing down and saturate me in cold.

I’d assist a lost spider, equipped with glass and card, but then weep when I accidentally crushed its fragile leg.

But the magic words would ensue without fail, and I feel cleansed, renewed and happy again.

I am so quick to forget that with every time I fall in love, my heart would also need to break.

I wake, nourished and full. I roll, arm outstretched, to have my hand fall on an empty pillow.Oh, that’s right…

Dragging my hand back, resisting the urge to bury my face in his pillow, I force myself up out of bed.Not quite sad enough for words, yet.Cold floor inspires swift dressing. I wander out into the kitchen and make coffee, refuse to check my phone for messages because I don’t care that he probably went home to his own bed with the preference to sleep alone and hasn’t texted me. Nope. Not a care.Hot cup against my palms, bitter warmth floods my senses in a way that no man can, and I’m in love again. Fuck, coffee is the best.

Content and caffeine-fuelled, I go outside to collect my washing. I can hear the ducks playing in the murky pool next door. With summer coming and going, the pool had been neglected, which then brought about the greenish muck that had accumulated on top. Then came the ducks, who seemed to quite enjoy this new makeshift pond, and the neighbouring house and owners of the pool didn’t seem to mind the new residents either. Soaking up the sunlight, gathering up clothes, I revelled in the sounds of the ducks splashing about and quacking loudly at each other. Peace.

Warmed and happy, I go back inside to put my clothes away and prepare some food. Plate in hand, I sit back in front of my computer, ready for the creative juices to flow. I stare at the blank screen, eating my sandwich. My mind is so painfully empty. The harsh white of nothing but my last misery-enforced paragraph burns into my retinas like a peripheral white noise blaring at my soullessness and therefore inability to create.

I have moments like these, in a state of perpetual contentment where I try to manufacture something without having to be buried in the depths of Plathian woe in order to write something. Apparently this state does not exist, although I keep trying. I decide this might be a good time to check my phone. Three hours have passed since I emerged from bed, and not a thing. Not a text, call or email. Well that’s depressing. Frustratingly not enough to get me writing, though.

I don’t hear from him for the rest of the day, I wander aimlessly and tidy up my flat. In need for some inspiration, I decide to call my mother and lend an ear for a couple of hours. Then I am lowly, tired, and back at my laptop with words flowing until I flop onto my bed and pass the fuck out from exhaustion.

Morning. Up. Cold floor. Noisy ducks. Coffee. Junk email. Out the door.

I’m greeted by the brisk, crunchy winter air. Passing my neighbours place, I see the ducks in the front yarded pool-pond having a splash around and making their strange noises. I smile, and continue on my way. The streets aren’t busy, which is nice. What people are around are drowned in blacks, grays and navies, muted tones for an icy day. I make my way to the office, get to my desk, and listen to the yammering tart in the next cubicle bragging about how she’s up to proofing her manuscript, and then she’ll have the thing ready with time to spare before the entry date closes.

I shake my head, yes it’s probably a damn sight easier to get inspiration for chick lit, I imagine.

I turn on the work computer to be greeted by my cruel alarm that I have set for myself: ONE WEEK LEFT.

Fuck.

I shake my head, as though trying to tip the thought out of my mind, and continue on with the day. I eventually get a text from him, wanting to come back around tonight. Cheeky, as he’s just on the other side of the office. I go into the break room and sit with the gaggle of the design department and half-listen to their innocuous dross, as I trace the table with my finger absent-mindedly, ignoring my food.

I decide that lunch is over early and make my way to the fancier side of the building. His office door is open, I pop my head in, he’s nowhere to be seen. I head back the way I came and stop by marketing to find out the progress of my program. In amongst a sea of cubicles, I say hi to Nervous and Balding and when I’m about to politely find out why things aren’t progressing, I hear a voice that gives me goosebumps. He’s over at a nearby cubicle, I figure.

I straighten up to see if I can spot him, and sure enough, there he is, about four away. I excuse myself and follow the voice, but stop dead in my tracks when I hear, “She hasn’t replied yet, but she’s always good to go.” I stay, aware that I’m in the middle of the cubicle ocean, obstructing traffic, but I don’t give a shit, and strain to hear. “I highly recommend her, I could pass her on when that little blonde starts noticing that I exist, hahaha.”

I turn and walk back to my desk, I’ve heard enough. I make a little detour to the ladies bathroom, and lock myself in a cubicle. I hang my head, massage my temples and try not to cry.Neck hurts. Head throbbing. Lump in throat. Upset stomach. Ok, maybe just a little cry to get this out. I shakily exhale, let my hands fall by my sides and I slump, defeated, waiting for the tears. Nothing happens. I conjure up those words from him, the bullshit promises and the hateful shit I just heard, and I feel like tears should come, I’m feeling everything except the actual physical result.

Upset and unsatisfied, I head back to my desk, and hide in my little office cubicle. I look at the screen. So much shit. I minimise the windows, inject my USB and write. I really shouldn’t be doing this at work, but fuck it. No tears, just words. And before I know it, it’s five.I pick up my bag and make my way out of the office. Door open. Out onto the street. I hear my name. I know who it is. I stop. Don’t need to turn because he’s suddenly there.

Is it ok to come round tonight?

No, sorry, I’m busy.

A look of surprised disappointment that’s just the tiniest bit satisfying. I continue on my way down the street. I walk past the neighbours. No sound from the ducks, perhaps sleeping or on other adventures. I like their style, and decide that downing some wine until I fall asleep may be the best idea anyone ever had. Thanks, ducks.

Unlocking my front door, shed jacket on the floor, kick shoes off. Kitchen. Been meaning to buy wine glasses. Mug will do. Pouring frustrates me. Bottle. Bed.

I wake four hours later in pitch black. Groggy and heavy, I slowly get to a sitting position then coax myself to standing despite the fact I just want to sleep some more.

No. Writing. Deadline. You’ve got to get this out.

I sit at my laptop. Ignore my horrifying reflection in the screen before it turns to bright white.USB. I start to type, but it’s empty. Sure I’m sad, and a little drunk, but it’s nothingness. It’s a shell of sad. It’s apathy more than anything else. Fuck. Elbows on desk. Head in hands. Try to cry. Remember the words. Remember that laugh. That smile. His smell. The way he draws circles on my skin.I reach into my bag by the desk for my phone. A missed call. A text. Two hours ago. Him.Everything ok?

I mull it over in my head. I need the words.

Come round. A little drunk.

Poetry that inspires an almost instant reply.

Be over in ten.

I sit back in my chair. Exhale laboured-like. What the fuck am I even doing….

Get up. Brush hair. Brush teeth. Shave things. Dress. Perfume.

Doorbell.

I open the front door, and there he is. He’s just showered. Perhaps he was fucking that blonde. I shake my head absent-mindedly to dismiss this thought. The action seems to confuse him until I run my fingers up the back of his head as I kiss him slowly. He is not substance enough to wonder much after that.

Hands. Lips. A frenzy of nothing but raw sensation and dismissing thoughts. Hard. Nothing else. Think of nothing else. Euphoria as I make him ensure my satisfaction.

We lay, an entanglement of limbs, breathless torsos, sweat and heated air staling to cool. He remarks that I’ve never been so demanding.

I reply by asking him to leave.

He turns his head sharply. Still entangled and confused, he asks why.

I then reply by getting up and walking out of the room to have a shower.

I turn on the water, wait for it to warm, then stand under it, contemplative, resisting the urge to go back out and tell him I didn’t mean it. I hear him come into the bathroom. Silence. I wait. Nothing.I start to wash my hair.

Did I do something wrong?

Why?

Because you’ve never asked me to leave before.

You leave anyway.

He is taken aback by this.

Yeah, but I at least cuddle you for a bit.

I’m good, but thanks.

I sneak a glance. He stands awkwardly, sort of dressed, hair mussed, jacket over one arm, barefoot. I pretend the odd vulnerability of this moment doesn’t rip my stomach to shreds. He turns and leaves.

I hear the front door close. And there it is. The pain. The pit of my stomach. Guilt. Tears will come. Unwarranted agony at the absence of some tossbag who doesn’t deserve a goddamned thing.

The fleeting sensory feast of him and his attempt at affection in the midst of hair-pulling and back raking had me reeling on a high, and the come-down is fucking brutal.

Perfect. I get out of the shower, towel myself off in a rushed fashion and get to my desk in my towel while the wound is still fresh. I write. The lump in my throat stays and wrenches at me, but I never cry. Hours pass and the sun is coming up, and I’m so fucking wrecked and cold when I drag myself into bed. The sheets still smell of him. No. I need to sleep.

My eyes close. It feels like a blink because I wake two hours later to my alarm and want to cry.I lie there and seriously consider calling in sick.

I’m so tired.I don’t want to see him.Though I’m about four pages off the end, so maybe I do?

I get up. Pull on some clothes and force coffee down my throat. Dear God, this sucks.I pick up my bag, check for a text. One from him. What’s going on?

I want to find it hilarious that this guy’s got no clue and might genuinely be feeling a little hurt by this. But the idea of it sickens me and makes me want to call him and apologise, so I refrain from replying.

Out the door. Cold. Quiet ducks. Outside is too bright, this is shit.

I get to the office. Everyone is caffeinated and perky and I want to smash every cheerful face I see into a nearby wall. I grunt in response to numerous hellos and plunk myself down at my desk and turn on my computer. The shapes in my vision are softened with blur, and my hands are shaking as I type.