It can hardly be called living if you have to pull yourself through the day, despite the pit that has formed in your navel, through which every last glimmer of happiness falls and is obliterated. You cannot proceed when with every step nausea washes over you in waves that drown, and you double over, clutching your stomach, muscles taut and breaths coming out in dry retches. That is truly the averse reaction you have on me. Then it's impossible to hold onto a sense of calm.
But I'll be seeing you again, unfortunately; remember it. I'll be seeing you in hell. And that shall be infinitely worse than what we suffer here.