Sprinkled, of course, with tinges of jealousy and suspicion and finger-pointing and biting remarks. I mean, I am still me after all.
But more and more frequently tempered by compassion, and caring, and empathy, and love.
In and out. Up and down.
But I still walked out of the room angry, falling back on words and phrases I've used a thousand times, waving my hands, slinging accusations that I don't even think I believed. And I felt the tears well up, and my face redden, and the tips of my hair set ablaze...
...and then it was gone.
And then I grabbed a box of tissue in anticipation of the flood, prepared for it to overcome me, maybe even welcoming the release, but it didn't happen.
There was no feeling of strangulation around my heart. No lump in my throat. No gritting my teeth when she came back up to apologize. No gut-wrenching pain when she walked back downstairs. There was just...nothing.
And I came into the bedroom and turned on the TV, and wouldn't you know that damn Jennifer Aniston break-up movie was on again. For like the 50th time this week. Seriously.
I get it.
And I know that it's not that there's nothing there. But it is that there's nothing there right now. And maybe, at least for tonight, that means I'll sleep.