And what if you died tomorrow? Our last moments spent fighting over something as stupid as a movie on TV, our last words tainted with anger, accusation, hatred? Stupidity. Regret.

And yet I can't stop myself from treating you this way, even knowing our time is limited. It makes me hate myself. I writhe in my own darkness, try to escape the choking hold of my pathetic, disgusting way.

When you're gone it'll be ten, one hundred times worse. The regret and anguish I feel now while you're hear will overwhelm and consume me when you're not. I think I hate myself now-well this is just the beginning.

And what if you died tonight, in your sleep? Our time cut short, my chance to make things right ripped out from under me. Still, my foolish, selfish pride binds me in my room, while you weep in yours, wishing your daughter showed you the love and kindness you've shown her. The love and kindness you've been silently yearning for, silently begging for, that she's too cold to give.