She kept disappearing. Longer and longer. One day she didn't return until Jack had gone to bed.

Going to bed alone was a strange feeling. He didn't mind spending the day alone. It was when it came time to wash up for bed, that an eerie feeling of loneliness struck him.

When he laid on the bed he wished the windows were open. He imagined the would-be breeze riding up the duvet and onto his face. But he kept the window closed. For her. Had she been there then it would be okay, but the window was shut for nobody.

As 

Imogen Howe

disappeared for the daytime, Jack spent it doing something he had never done before. He began writing. Not into a notebook like Imogen did. He logged into some website. He was actually surprised to see that it was still up. He had signed up for it years ago because one of his college friends told him about it.

"It's like a writing community. People write everyday and you support each other."

But when Jack logged in again for the first time in years, there was nobody but two guys writing a horrible story together. There was no plot, or rather whenever a semblance of a plot formed they would abandon it and create a new one. There were so many characters. All of them were flatter that cardboard. Yet they had been writing like this for years.

Jack was inspired and began writing his own story. He would write for about four hours a day. The rest of the day he would spend taking walks, doing calisthenics and eating eggs. He was up to eating about 24 eggs a day now.

When Imogen came back that night Jack was in bed but still awake. He pretended to be asleep though. She never asked him or said hi so there was no chance for him to say 'no. i'm still awake'. so he kept pretending. Kept his eyes closed.