Anger.

And there is hatred. It is still unclear towards who or what. It is as though you were a little toddler who is missing the toy you had seconds ago. You hate something you can't even exactly point at. You hate her. You hate her actions. You hate the situation. You hate yourself. 

You push away the feeling of rejection and hopelessness and cover it up with a nice level of anger.

It is easy to look down on everything that made you feel so irrelevant, that made you feel worthless. It is easy to have it under your feet to step on, to despise, to show disgust. Your thoughts are enrage with rethorical questions:

How could she let herself out with the first bloke she crossed paths with?

How could she let herself go out amisdt a pandemic?

How could she say she had used you so easily, so coldhearted?

How could she talk about future boyfriends coming in her (your both) apartment?

How could she be influenced and manipulated by workplace gossip and start to despise you for being different like everyone else?

How could she leave you when you needed her the most?

Well, it figures.

And yet, back there, in the crude mind there is a little sarcastic lad looking at you like "you know this is completely irrelevant". He enjoys torturing you: "you know if she calls, you'll be right there". This sad little man is right, but that only makes you hate him, too. He makes you feel the same piece of shite like everything else that is going on and you push him out to stop the nuisance.

You keep hating her and her going outs and her flerting and her texting random internet loosers. You hate it so much you begin to cry. Anger grows tall and, surprisingly-but-not-that-much, it crumbles into bitterness, into bits of resentment and fear of the truth.

Now you cry like the baby who hasn't been fed his emotional milk.