I had a seven hour layover in Heathrow. I was dreading it, but I went into the Business Class lounge (because I flew back in style, too, yo) and curled up in a chair and slept for six straight hours, waking only when an elderly woman getting out of her wheelchair whacked my head with her cane. I was so tired that I just mumbled a "It's fine, you didn't hurt me..." as she apologized profusely.
Upon my return to Paris, I found The Boy sleeping in bed. Yes, he was asleep at 19.00 (he had gone to bed at 6 am and has been sick for the last three days), and when I bent over to kiss him hello, he didn't make a move. Then, ten seconds later, like a freaked-out cat, he jumped up. He thought there was an intruder in the house, and smiled a big sleepy smile when he realized it was just me. I snuggled into him and he slowly woke up; it felt so nice to be in our bed and sleepy. I think I also just needed the physical closeness for a bit.
Things got really rough towards the end of my trip, and there was one point where I was ready to just get a taxi and go to the airport. I stuck around, however, and no matter how awkward and uncomfortable that got at moments, I'm glad I did. Although I'm still hurt and confused, I think the air has cleared a bit... or something. Honestly, I don't know what to think anymore.
I don't know. So much sadness. But I can't dwell. I've got too much to do.