"I can't see a way this can work", he said

I cried the next morning when I woke up before my alarm, and then I cried in the shower.

I cried on the bus, looking out of the window.

I cried at my desk, really discreetly, and in the toilets at work.

I cried because I was frustrated, I cried because I felt sad.

I cried with a bit more volume and vigour when I got home that evening and no one was in, then I cried in the shower, put my make up on, did my hair, painted my nails and went out for dinner.

I almost cried in the restaurant, but we changed the subject just in time - and then I ordered another drink.

The next morning, I cried because of the radio silence; because I didn't have someone saying "hey, good morning, how are you?" and that was always quite nice to have until it wasn't there any more.

I cried when I looked in my kitchen cupboard and saw the honey I'd dared myself to buy, because I wanted to believe he'd be back, and he likes it.

I cried when someone was mean to me, and I cried because they didn't know. And I cried because I'd been mean first, and I hadn't meant to be, but when you're upset and tired things come out the wrong way.

Later that afternoon, someone approached my closed bedroom door with a tentative knock.

I cried, shaking my head, when she asked "Have you heard from him?", then I cried on her shoulder when she hopped up onto the bed with me and gave me a hug.

I cried when she said "no, it's not like starting again, because now you know what you want, for next time."

(I cried at the prospect of "next time")

I didn't cry when they made me leave the house and go for a walk, through east London Fields, down to Columbia Road and back, and the sun was shining and the dogs were out.

I realised I hadn't cried yesterday - and then I cried because I still felt exhausted, because I know it will get better and the tears will probably dry up soon.

But until then, I'm going to cry because this is how it goes, and this, in every sense of it, is normal.