You hear the change in his breathing and know he is awake. The sheets rustle as he climbs from the bed, careful not to wake you and you draw your breath slowly and evenly although your heart pounds wildly in your chest. He gathers up the clothes that lie scattered on the floor, moving quietly, and still you feign sleep until you sense that his back is turned - when you open an eye slowly, barely so if he turns he won't notice. But he doesn't turn. You watch him dress, hurriedly as if he has an appointment, but you know he doesn't need to be anywhere. Except away from you.

He explained it all very clearly last month, even though you never asked, but you listened anyway.

He told you he couldn't pretend that he didn't care for you. That this was real life, and he was real life, and not one of the characters in your novel. He told you that he can’t just turn his emotions on and off.

You already knew that though. What he doesn't understand is that the reason why he loves you is the exact reason why you can't love him. He is right, he is not one of your characters, and because he isn't one of your characters, you can't love him, because you could never love anything that you couldn't write about.

But you watch him through half-closed eyes, breathing slowly, as he brushes past your dog on the way out the door.

You hear the door close softly behind him and then the engine of his truck as it roars to life. He lets it idle for a moment, warming the engine as he fumbles through his CD collection, searching for one that will match his darkened mood. Then he drives away.

You stretch and then lie still for a moment, wondering why his absence bothers you anyway.

You climb from the warmth of the bed and don a robe, then walk to the door he just left, touching the handle. The door is locked because he cares enough to protect you. And you look out the window for his truck because you care enough that he just walked out of your life forever.

And then you see the note. He must have written it last night while you slept, and you read it.

"Although I will never be able to put my feelings into words like you do so well, it seems that words are all that you understand. So, know this: You will always be missed. No matter where you are or what you do, it will be I who misses you."

And the words bring tears to your eyes because it is what you would have written.

And sometimes, lonely is not being alone. It is disappointment and regret and fear all balled together in a fist that cannot strike.