You saw how I tried to be tender with him, didn't you? He's so difficult. So difficult and yet I love him like no other.

I check my nose for blood from the impact, but my hand comes away clean. It doesn't matter anyway - I'm ugly. I'm hideous. I'm ugly and hideous and I should be locked away. He told me so.

I crawl up the stairs behind him, careful not to make a sound. He's only been out of my sight a second or two, but I'm so addicted to him I already want him back. He'll probably try and warn me he's busy. Yes. I listen for it. The sound of the television in our bedroom.

What will he do tonight? Read? Reading helps him block me out. He can't fool himself into thinking I'm not just going to stalk him, but delving into the pages of a novel makes him happy, and that makes me happy. I don't want to disturb the feelings he rarely enjoys; no, not with my awful ugly presence. I crawl around his bedroom door and crouch under his desk where I've a clear view of the double bed in the corner.

Just in time, too. I watch hungrily as he undresses. I can see the bulge in his biceps as he removes his shirt. The furrows of his ribs. The curve of his slim back. He re-covers it all with a t-shirt and unbuckles his belt. I bring my fingers to my lips as I watch him show me his sturdy thighs, having to tame the flutter in my chest.

He pulls his grey joggers up to his hips and picks up the book on his bedside. He wastes no time lying down, hands first, creasing the sheets under his weight. I can smell the book as he flicks its leaves to his page, and I inhale it. Tangy, bleached wood. He begins to read with the television on loud beside him. Finally, he wets his lips.

I let out a muffled cry from under his desk. I can barely contain myself. I want to laugh and cry and rip him into pieces all at the same time. I want him. I want him.

I WANT HIM.

I fidget. There are only so many hours I can sit still and watch him reading. The clock on the wall ticks so much slower when I'm feeling this ... needy. He used to let me curl up in bed with him, all the while not talking, but it was better than nothing. I used to be able to comfort him with my touch, with my loving whispers, but now he doesn't want it. I remember when the change happened. He was seeing that woman. That bitch. Oh, I remember her pretty bimbo face, her blonde curls and those rouged cheeks. She tried to change him; tried to tame the monster he knows he is. And since then he's not wanted me anymore, as if I'm bad for him.

She stole him from me. She stole the only thing in my sad existence that gives me purpose.

But I can't let him abandon me like I'm a pet he no longer wants after he invited me in. Part of his messed-up psyche knows that, and now he lets me reside here quietly. What do I do in the day? I wait for him to come home so I can catch a glimpse of him, and when he's finally here I wait for him to look at me. I want him to acknowledge me once in a while. We used to love each other so damn much. Back then, I wasn't a secret.

He pops a sleeping pill and swigs at a glass of water. It's dark in his room now, and his eyes look like they ache from reading in the dark. He hasn't said goodnight to me, but over the past year I've grown used to that.

It doesn't stop me wanting him though, and I want him tonight.