There are worse things than being alone. I wish I knew how to say it better.
But loneliness isn't the worst feeling--the absence of feeling is.

You hate the person you love. You hate the person you become. It never seems to matter how perfectly everything started. No matter what, you seem to find yourself either going along with every little inane thing they do or say to avoid an argument or you build sanctuaries for yourself away from them: little bubbles of peace and fecundity to revitalize yourself. You take longer and longer to get home from work or school. You stop at the library or the coffee shop on the way. You read adventure novels and magazines and sip coffee you barely taste. Slowly. Always slowly. because you know when you get home, you'll drown in gray. It won' be their fault. They'll just be gadding on about Fallout or Facebook. But his voice has become the house of your stagnation. You're suffocating on your own claustrophobia. You'll get out whether you mean to or not.