It’s like losing part of your field of view in some way. You always expect them to be there in your periphery; in earshot. They’re always there, but not now. Now there’s just you, and the lack. It’s vacuous; dense and significant like an event horizon of longing that feeds on your attention. Your distractions are part of how you’re together. You’re always with each other, even when you’re not focused on each other. The lack becomes a faint shriek that clicks with metronomic consistency; the meter gently increasing until you have no choice but to face it. You can’t face it though, there is nothing to face. That is the point. The couch, the bed, the chair. The thought of them being empty is so deeply improbable, it never bears consideration. But there’s your reality. You’re alone. You can’t talk to them. You can’t admire them. You can’t kiss them on the check, or run your hands through their hair. You can’t bury yourself in their arms and denature into a gel of bliss and comfort. You can thrash and cry and kneel blood-soaked and naked in the dewy morning grass begging the rising sun itself to bring them back, but every last effort is in vain. You are the only one there. You, and the lack.