It happens when you come back.
You close and lock the door for the night and then it hits you. All day you drive the ache away, shove it so far down you’re practically walking on it in your shoes. But when you come back and only silence greets you, it climbs right back up around your throat.
You turn on the T.V., play music — anything to fill the screaming silence. But it doesn’t help. The distraction never lasts.
Nights are the worst.
You don’t go to bed, even though you’re exhausted, because the thought of lying in bed, unable to sleep instantly, staring at the celing and listening to that peircing lack of another person’s steady breathing terrifies you.
The darkness always makes it worse.
And nothing ever makes it better.