I almost forgot myself and went to sit. Then remembered how soft the feather cushions were. How they’d mould into our bodies. Do you remember? That time on the sofa? I do. Often. I thought about it at that moment too. I’m thinking about it again now.

Next was the kitchen. Were you perhaps depressed? There was a build-up of washing-up. No pans. Only bowls and cups. Remnants of the cereal I’d often see you shovelling into your mouth. I was concerned you weren’t eating properly.

Magnets attached various papers and to-do notes to the front of the fridge. Your calendar was marked with several entries. You’d already turned it to December. The 12th: Get MOT. The 14th: Dentist. Other boring chores. Secured under a separate heavy grey pyramid-shaped magnet was the back of an envelope with Milk. For God’s sake, remember the milk! I opened the fridge. Your note had worked. Inside was a small organic full-fat milk, a bottle of Peroni and a wooden circular packet of Camembert, which stank, making me retch. It was pleasing you had no imminent plans for entertaining.

I moved on to the room I’d saved till last. Your bedroom.

Standing in the doorway, I took in the scene. It was almost the same as when I’d last been there. Lying in the rumpled bed. You next to me. Consumed by each other.

The ghost of you was everywhere. The sheets, ruched, carrying your sweat and skin. Your imprint. A glass of water on the bedside table. Dirty boxers abandoned on the floor.

I perched on the edge of the bed. Gently. Mustn’t disturb. Dropped my bag on the floor and slowly, deliberately lowered myself onto my side, my head gravitating to the pillow until it rested there. Breathing in. Breathing you in. Closing my eyes. Then jolting them back open as my phone rang loud against the silence and wrongdoing.

I pulled myself up to sitting. The pillow moved with me and I panicked that once again I’d failed to remember the exact positioning. Already forgetting my own new photograph rule. The ringing wouldn’t stop. I dug into my bag, located it and picked up the call.

‘No, no, I’m fine. I’ve just run from the other room, that’s all . . . I’m not whispering . . . I don’t want to disturb Edward . . . Yes, I’m leaving now.’

Once the call had ended, I frantically repositioned the pillows and smoothed away my existence from the covers. Thankfully noticing a rogue hair that had detached from my head and lay weightless on the cotton pillowcase. I held it up between the tips of my fingers, then dropped it into my bag.