"There's food in my stomach," I told him later that day.

Food. Great, sarcasm intended. How much and what?

I sighed, and typed, "Left over spaghetti bake."

What the fuck is that?

I laughed. "Spaghetti noodles and sauce with cheese melted in the oven."

You eat the meat?

"Yes, daddy," I joked.

How much?

"As much as Jenna ate."

And Jenna's what, 12?

"Yeah. Your point is? I ate something, for you, too."

Yeah, thanks. I care about you, Becca.

God, how I wished that meant something more than he cared for me. Couldn't he care for me as a girlfriend? He was just that sweet and caring, I wished he was mine. (But not in a possessive sort of way) "I even had a soda," I told him, and myself.

I wish you would do so for yourself, and not just me, Becca.

"What's it matter? I'm eating."

You ate yesterday morning and this night. Once every 36 hours isn't enough, Becca.