I might do what Tara Moore is doing. Move to Australia. They’re always looking for doctors over there. Or I could find myself an eligible bachelor and convince him that I love him. I won’t tell him that I’m just looking for a way out of here.

When I think about it, I don’t believe I will actually love again. Not the way I loved Andriu. He was perfect. When Tara said she was meeting him next week, I almost threw up on the spot. I thought he was gone, vanished into thin air. But no, she kept in touch. Tara said Andriu contacted her but I’m not so sure. If he was going to contact anyone it would have been me. She must have contacted him. Tara seems to be telling a lot of lies lately. What is she hiding? I don’t trust her anymore, not after what she did when she was supposed to be my best friend. I was definitely her best friend. I have the scars.

And why is Andriu going to her wedding? It sounds to me like they’re more than just casual Facebook friends. Maybe they continued their dalliance when I left Huntley Lodge. Tara went home to her dad’s house for a while but they could have been meeting up. I wonder if she ever went to London to visit him. My stomach hurts when I think about it. How could I have been such a fool?

Sometimes I lay awake at night wondering if I had imagined it all. Did Andriu really exist? Was he really my boyfriend? But he was. I’ve a punctured heart to prove it.

But why her? Why not me? He could have reached me somehow. Tara said he contacted her through Messenger. Maybe he did try to contact me. I shouldn’t have deleted my account. I wonder if he asked her about me. Is it me he’s really hoping to meet when he returns to Dublin next week?

The house is eerily quiet when I open the door. I creep up the stairs, hoping not to make any noise. This is my life now. Creeping around, trying not to get noticed.

The cover on my bed is turned down, waiting for me. That will be my mother. She keeps fixing everything around me. Making my stay here as comfortable as possible. My favourite dinners. Favourite bread. She washes my clothes, irons my clothes, makes my bed.

My father is less impressed that I’ve needed to fall back on them. I’m sure he expected me to be married by now. To be bringing my children to his yacht club to show them off and brag about their IQs. Just like he did with me.