You're floating round this house.

Yet I'm no angel.

I cannot bear it. I cannot bear that he gets you- I'm not sure that I want you any more, but it pains me to think that he, the adulterer, has you. You have chosen him, to be deserving of you. It's not fair. I'm clumsy, and you don't like it. I've broken a chair, a spoon and a few wine glasses, that I replaced. I fixed the chair, though it's still cracked. I apologised and meant it. He broke your heart and buys you stupid flowers. I don't know what he says in private. Maybe he apologises and means it, but flowers are not worth that same as your heart. You nag me. I've never heard you nagging him. Why don't I deserve someone I love? Why doesn't anyone ever fall in love with me? Why does a repugnant adulterer with a stupid moustache who vacantly hums about the house get someone, and I don't? What's wrong with me?

I won't settle. You never compromise, but you are willing to compromise on this, maybe because you love him so much. I don't think I could bear that sort of compromise. I certainly couldn't do it without the odd screaming match. That is why I haven't got anyone, coupled with my own fear of trying.

I cannot bear that my role in your life is reduced to that of a spectator of your great love affair. You call me when you need help shifting the bed. I helped him shift it into place. You're renovating your room. Making it new, with him. Forgetting the hours you spent there, sad and recovering, probably. Forgetting the hours you spent with me there too. The hours he spends scraping the foam off the floor are his penance, maybe, for you. You've redone the house. There's an owl made of dough hung where the calendar used to be, with off-centre eyes and misshapen feet. It is disgusting. There's a crack in it, and I hope it falls down soon. There are flowers every day. They wilt, and he replaces them, it seems. There's croque monsieur cheese in the fridge. He comes in and changes everything. He is welcomed back into the community, though not by me.

You move all of my shoes (except for one pair) into my bathroom. You tell me that my bathroom is getting mouldy. You move my coats upstairs. You've got ten, I've got one, now, in the cupboard in the hall. You want to tidy me into a neat little corner and get me out, on occasions, to witness the both of you being together. Proof that he's here, because otherwise you'd think it was all a dream. You are so happy, now. You nag me less and laugh more, because he's here, and I can't bear that this arsehole is enough for you. More than enough. I can't bear that it's so easy for you to replace me. I am jealous and sad, and I want someone. I need to find someone of my own, because then I would be less obsessed. I accept that I cannot change your feelings, and I am sometimes even happy for you. It's just mixed with this awful stake of jealousy that runs through me every time he sings or does something.

I will not speak to him, unless under duress. Today I said, 'aspirateur' as he came down the stairs with one. We ignore each other on our own. I am not going to speak to him at all. Unless forced.