Writers can be such dramatic creatures. I need more of them in my life, they would understand me. We feel things deeply, the pain churning in our souls makes for the best, most honest pieces we'll ever written. I'm sitting on the living room floor because my flatmate moved out today with his couch and my heart. It's funny, I didn't realise I was falling for him until it was too late. I spent months on that couch with him, slowly, unwittingly learning to love him. I learnt to watch television again, I started following his shows, even got caught up in a few of my own. I'm on the verge of tears, always on the verge, never crying. Even as my heart breaks and my soul screams for release, I still don't cry. I'll get new furniture sometime this week. I should put up a notice for a new roommate soon, he has gone. He moved to the other side of the city, he has. It doesn't seem like much but I'm dreading not coming home to him everyday, is it still hom...