This is the third night in the house with HP living in a different room. Last night I stayed in the office late reading through a manuscript and chatting with a few book festival organisers in the States. I was certain HP would be there when I got home, and I was both dreading and looking forward to it. I was hoping that he would have a miraculous change of heart, tell me he never stopped loving me, and it would all magically go back to the way it was before he moved to Dundee. Because, let’s be honest, we’ve slowly been growing apart since we moved in together.
But I was also really nervous to come home because I knew this would never happen. Instead, I spent most of the night lying still in bed wondering when he’d get home, then once he came home listening for any sound to indicate he wants to talk. That didn’t happen.
Oh, but the one nice thing about him being back in the house is that he’s set the router back up. I have Internet again. I’ve spent most of tonight hopelessly scrolling through Facebook and Googling his name hoping it would miraculously tell me what he’s up to. Because, well you know that Google is a mind reader.
It’s a quarter to one in the morning, and he’s not come home. This is driving me nuts. I know it shouldn’t, but it’s not like he’s not really my boyfriend any longer. We’re just in a bit of a tiff that’s all. Where the fuck is he?