The question fits the question mark

I dreamt of nothing. I lay on my back, my eyelids wide open and fixed on the ceiling, my stomach twisting, weaving itself into thick knots. Every night it's the same; the emotional stress presents itself as a real and tangible discomfort in the pit of my abdomen and at the bridge of my nose. When sleep finally comes and offers it's reprieve from the physical manifestation of my anxiety, it torments me instead with uneasy dreams of senescence, of ashen and inhospitable wastelands, of ruin. Worst of all are those dreams of pleasant memories that lure me into false comfort and make my heart sink that much deeper upon awakening. I found consciousness before the light of day and opened my eyes one at a time to blearily face a reality I have been trying my best to escape. I am greeted with yet another overcast day and the same thick knots in my gut.

I kicked off the blankets, regretting not wearing clothes to bed while my body shivered and nearly sent me back under the covers. Pressing myself to keep moving (always to keep moving), I got out of bed, threw whatever dirty clothes lay strewn about my room onto my body, and hurried into the kitchen.  My body physically rejected the thought of consuming solid food for the third day in a row, so I hastily poured juice down my throat, brushed my teeth, and left my house.

Under the pressure of the world's merciless and disparaging stare, the thin veil of composure I conceal myself with threatened to come undone. A loud and marked hunger bubbled underneath the surface, and it was all I could do not to scream and cry and accuse the world of it's cruelty and unfairness right there on the 99 B-Line. 

I spent the rest of the day with my face hidden behind my computer and my lips pressed firmly in an expressionless gaze. I did not trust my mouth to keep quiet my disquiet, and had I opened it, the whole class would have surely heard the roaring coming from my insides.

Trust me, I feel as pathetic as I am sure I seem.
But perhaps it was foolish of me to think we could speak freely so soon. I know this man not as a friend, but as a lover. We were nothing and then we were something and maybe now, in the absence of lines, I have no idea where to tread. 

This will run its course. I just have to let it somehow.

A thousand lies, you tell yourself; that no one ever loved you right