"Are you doing ok?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything you need?"
"No."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Can I get you anything?"
"Not really."

"You're beautiful."
"You're amazing."
"You're wonderful."
"You're the best."

Yet never enough. Never ever enough...

There is dread in my stomach. It keeps growing. It's sickening I'm sick. No, I'm not pregnant. I'm sad. Yet I'm easily comforted. Like a child. False comfort. False, false comfort. I'm bored. I never need anything. Or so I say. I'm difficult. Stubborn. Yet apprehensive. Docile. Pliable. Undemanding. I should be more like you. You are so perfect... And I'm so inappropriate in my mood swings and bouts of sadness.
I should be more like you. I wish I could be more like you...

False comfort. It's all but false comfort.