Colin Nissan wants you to know that he misses you: “I miss your little feminine touches around our home—the candles, the food, the toilet paper.” He reads his sad letter, which was originally published as a newyorker.com Daily Shouts column. “There’s a hollowness inside of me that was once filled by you. The kind of hollowness you feel when you tap on a secret wood panel in a rich old business tycoon’s library. But there’s no women’s underwear or Nazi memorabilia hidden behind my panel. Just emptiness.”