His phone is dead. I've been texting him all morning. Things like "good morning my sweet. Thanks for sticking around yesterday." My In-box empty. "My arms are sooo sore from all that freaking shoveling." And then after what felt like hours but was probably only a few desperate minutes, "I reallyy hope your phones not dead." So now I'm on his Teen Ink because I know it wont leave any foot prints and I really don't want him to know how much I miss him. I read Ave Adore again. It always makes me sad to recall the times where I was his muse, and I was still some shrine to his loneliness. Now his TeenInk tells me my ex boyfriend inspires more of his work. I'm still working out how to react to that one. This entry feels coated in nostalgia. But what you need to understand is all of what I'm missing only happened in his works of fiction and my imagination. The best summer of my life, never happened. So I feel strange complaining because its not like things got bad. No, there just real and I'd be crazy if I complained about that. The only thing that really makes me mad is that I bathe and feed him not because its romantic but necessary, I live in the shadow of his writing so here I am clouding the site that publishes anything he ever types, I don't just say I miss you, I really do miss you, and on top of all of this, he tells me he love me more. He's my dumb muse, my best friend, my husband. He's my life support. And it makes me sad to know that he would rather read The Eyre Affair than see me.