He tries to leave quietly. I wake up anyway. I want to scream at him; tell him to get the fuck out of my bed and the fuck out of my house and the fuck out of my head. It’s all for nothing. He pulls his jeans over his skinny hips and looks at me. I say nothing. He smiles and whispers something I don’t hear before walking out of the door. I hurl my pillow after him.

I wrap myself in the dishevelled sheets until I am cocooned in cotton. I tell myself over and over that I hate him; my morning mantra. If I can tell myself I hate him at least forty times before my first cup of coffee then I am allowed to have a biscuit. I won’t earn one this morning. I barely have the energy to keep my eyes open, let alone lie to myself. I debate unravelling myself and making a pot of coffee but the gentle lull of our combined warmth keeps me still.

My pillow lies abandoned on the floor so I am left with yours. It smells of you; a combination of your skin and shampoo. I try not to smell it but every time I breathe in, you’re there. Haunting me. Mocking me. I wish you were still laying beside me; breathing rhythmically with the stillness of sleep.

But I also wish you were dead.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.