It was raining when Priya left the bank on Friday evening. She put up her umbrella and kept her head down, looking out for puddles as she made her way to the bus stop. Of course he was waiting for her, as he had been every night that week.

“Good evening, Miss Ghuman,” he said, and handed her a rose.

“Thank you,” she replied before joining the queue.

Priya climbed on board the bus and took a seat on the top deck. She glanced out of the window and for a moment thought she spotted Seb hiding in the shadows of a shop doorway. When she got off the bus in Fulham Road, another young man, another rose, another thank you. She ran to the flat as the rain became heavier by the minute. By the time she put her key in the front door she was frozen. She’d decided on a quick supper, a warm bath and early bed, and tonight she would even try and get some sleep.

She was taking a yogurt out of the fridge when the door bell rang. She smiled, and checked her watch: the last rose of the day, which would join all the others in the vase on the hall table. Wondering just how long Seb would keep this up, she walked quickly to the door, not wanting the young man to get drenched. She opened it to find him standing there, an umbrella in one hand, a rose in the other.

Priya slammed the door in his face, sank to the floor and burst into tears. How could she continue to treat him so badly, when she was the one to blame? She sat in the hallway, hunched up against the wall. It was some time before she slowly picked herself up and made her way back to the kitchen. The light was fading, so she walked across to the window and drew the curtains. It was still raining—what the English describe as cats and dogs. And then she saw him, head down, sitting on the curb on the far side of the road, rain cascading off his umbrella into the gutter. She stared at him through the tiny gap in the curtain, but he couldn’t see her. She must tell him to go home before he caught pneumonia. She ran to the door, opened it and shouted, “Sebastian.” He looked up. “Please go home.”

He stood up, and she knew she should have closed the door immediately. He began walking slowly across the road toward her, half expecting the door to be slammed in his face again. But she didn’t close it, so he stepped forward and took her in his arms.

“I don’t want to go on living if I can’t be with you,” he said.

“I feel the same way. But you must realize it’s hopeless.”