I nod, my throat swelling up.

‘I love you,’ he murmurs, taking my hand and pressing a kiss to the tips of my fingers.

I blink back tears. But whether it’s because of Lachie or because of my guilt or just down to goddamn timing, I don’t tell him I love him back.

My return to Sydney is hideous. Walking into a flat devoid of Lachie’s things is unspeakably awful. It’s the middle of winter in Australia and the cold, damp days don’t help. I’m completely out of sorts when I return to work, but my horrible boss doesn’t give a toss about my jet lag or my post-break-up trauma. She just wants me to deal with the work that’s been piling up for me after she failed to hire full-time cover on the picture desk. And she wants it done yesterday.

Lachie comes over on the weekend to pick up a couple of stray items of clothes that I found in with my stuff.

It’s acutely painful to stand in front of him and not be able to touch him.

‘How was your trip?’ he asks, his arms folded across his chest and his bulging biceps filling out the sleeves of his lightweight jacket.

‘I caught up with Alex,’ I find myself telling him, straight off.

He nods, not seeming surprised. ‘I thought that you would.’

‘You’re not angry? Or upset?’

‘I’m a little sad,’ he admits. ‘But I always knew you hadn’t entirely closed the door on that one.’

I swallow, surprised that he’s being so philosophical. ‘How are things with you?’ I ask.

He shifts on his feet awkwardly. ‘I’m seeing Fliss,’ he reveals.

Despite everything, the pain takes my breath away.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘It just sort of happened. I feel so bad after everything I said about her, but I don’t think I was being honest with myself. Or you. We just click. I still feel so guilty.’

I shake my head, not wanting to cry in front of him.

But I do, later. A lot.

Alex emails me soon after I arrive home to ask how I am, but he doesn’t make another declaration of love.

One day I come into work to find a joke from him that he heard that morning on the radio and I find myself laughing out loud.

We begin emailing each other more often, usually just short, sweet, jokey messages that brighten each other’s days.

A few weeks later, when I’ve finished packing up the last of my boxes, I have an overwhelming urge to speak to him. So I dial his number.

I like that I can picture him sitting on his sofa at home in his living room with a view of his garden while he talks to me about his day. I feel a million times better after that simple conversation.

August rolls into September and one day I realise it’s exactly a year after Alex first got back in touch.