“Mornings are the worst,” I say.
The whole day stretches ahead with no respite in sight. Just hour after hour of wondering why the phone is silent. Watching the sun rise and fall with no solace in the sound of his voice or a curious text message to see how I am. The day is all waiting.
“Evenings are the worst,” I say.
The anticipation that he may come home nearly kills me. I hear car doors that don’t really exist. Every time the dogs run to the window my heart leaps into my throat. If I close my eyes I can feel his body next to me. The evening is all anticipation and disappointment.
“Night times are the worst,” I say.
The jolt from sleep and the jarring realisation that I’m still alone in the bed. Everything is magnified: the sounds from outside, the coolness of the air, the deepness of the night. The emptiness is acute. I can’t hide from it. It consumes me. And the world is asleep, no one is there to listen. The night time is all fear and desolation.