It’s worse because she looks right at me and says ‘I can’t see you anymore,’ with an anvil weight that would be comedic in a cartoon scenario. Little pressures build at unused points within me, acute punctures that target and release specific amorphous emotions. All I can muster is a lacklustre why? From inside emancipation she tells me, ‘I don’t own you, I don’t want to, but the need is overwhelming. Knowing you exhausts me in a way I can’t commit to anymore.’ I tell myself that I should cry but I don’t even have the moxie to submit.