It wasn't the loving each other or the knowing they could never be together.
It wasn't the wind in the eaves of the empty house,
or the bone-dry rattle of the pills in the brown-glass bottle.
It wasn't the bitter taste, with only a stale box of red wine to wash it away.
It wasn't waking, with her dead and you all too alive.
It wasn't the way your fingers shook. It was a stammer, and the thickness of your tongue as you tried to speak. It was the sound of the sirens, coming closer.
It was knowing that you would never get another chance.
-Chapter4: Despair, The Sandman (Endless Nights) by Neil Gaiman