The beginnings of a book/screenplay I'm working on (Haven't decided which route I'm going to take!)

The gaping hole in my heart is pounding again. It's ripping through my chest, no end in sight. I reached out, hoping his hand would be there, and realized that I'm all alone. Still alone. Still afraid I'll never see him again, yet knowing that one glance will reopen the fragile stitches on my heart. Even things so mundane as getting dressed in the morning brings the memories flooding back.

He would always sit and watch me as I did my hair and put on my makeup. He was fascinated by the process, never tiring of the routine. He would wake while I was in the shower, make his cup of coffee, setting mine down on my well worn vanity table, and take his place on the bed, sheets still torn apart from the night before. I would ignore him at first, putting product in my hair, blow drying it straight, or curling it, or throwing it up in some elaborate hairdo, as the day saw fit. I would be applying my makeup, seeing him staring at me intently in the mirror the entire time, and finally I would turn around and with a falsely indignant voice, say irritably, "Why do you always watch me get ready every day? Don't you have anything better to do?"
And he would say the same thing, those same words that filled my heart with such hope, such love, such pride that I couldn't contain my smile, much less my habit of asking him. He would look at me, with that crooked smile on his sleepy face and say, "I love watching you go from the girl I slept with last night, to the woman I'll get to sleep with tonight." And then he would kiss me and leave to get ready for his day while I would return to my routine.

It's this memory that haunts me. It's what's causing the hole to reopen, the pain to come back. I can make it through my day without it, and sometimes I can even sleep well at night now. But every morning as I get ready, I just want to hear his voice. I just want to know he's watching me.

Sometimes I forget he's gone. Sometimes I pretend he's still there. I turn around and ask him why he's watching me and sit in silence for minutes on end waiting. I wonder what he would do if he could see me now. If he knew then what I would be, would things be different? I so long for him it cuts me to the core. I pray for the numbness to return, and as I step out of my house, our house, it does. And I can breathe. Oh I just want to breathe.

What have I become?