i’m never at home anymore. it’s a symptom of the job. you understand. i’m constantly jaunting abroad, to and fro, never a chance to sit on the expensive couch i bought. i watch netflix on my phone as we fly over the atlantic. thought i would miss it, and maybe i do, occasionally, in that moment when i step into my hotel room, brush my teeth, shower, that little time alone before i sleep. sometimes i lay in bed and just stare at the ceiling, to get my bearings, my emotional bearings, my mental bearings. i should read a book or watch TV or call you, but instead i just stare at the ceiling. i don’t think about anything, or anyone, i just … stare, until i fall asleep or until a creeping self-aware melancholy seeps into me, until i feel guilty for doing nothing. those nights, i tend to cry myself to sleep.
darling, i don’t say this to make you upset. it’s just my job. it’s what i do, it’s my life. you are my life, and it is my life. please don’t make me choose. i am hollow sometimes in dark hotel rooms whose minibars i’ve raided, but at least i have an endpoint, a goal, a place to be, people to talk to. without work i have only you and please, please understand, you mean everything to me, but that hollowness … it is not filled with love. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. it’s not filled with love.