I couldn’t bring myself to plead guilty, but weary of the denial, I confessed with my silence, cowering my head, like the bad child I was.

All was quiet. Aside the hypnotic piano. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. I’d hoped it signalled the end of the confrontation, but you grabbed me by my wounded arm, twisted me to look at you, before speaking through tightened teeth.

‘Take the dress off, get the fuck out of my flat and life, then get some help.’

The way you looked at me was not dissimilar to when you were fucking me, and part of me wondered if you’d lean in for a kiss. But you released me with an extra jolt to push me away, then stumbled backwards into your perfect row of shoes, which led you to bend down, pick up a brown brogue and lob it across the room.

I jumped as it thudded against the abstract black-and-white print that I never really understood.

This seemed to calm you enough to walk over to the bed, drop onto the edge and lower your head. Your hair cascading over your face in that way it did. Enticing me to run through it with my fingers.

‘Why, Constance? I’ve only ever been nice to you . . . I thought you were my friend?’

You truly believed that, didn’t you? Within your little bubble of self and wants. I wonder, do any of us grasp our effects on others, as we float through life in these bubbles, fuelled by our own desires? You looked so hurt. I was distressed I’d disappointed you, just like I’d disappointed Dad. So I spoke the words I’d regretted not saying when he went for his walk that day.

‘Because I . . . I love you.’

You looked up at me. Your face lifted as if you’d waited all this time to hear me say it. You smiled. As did I. And the relief I felt after so desperately wanting to express it all that time was instantaneous. But your smile switched to a laugh. A nasty, mocking laugh. Only breaking to mimic me.

‘I love you . . . I love you.’

I tried not to cry as your cackle bounced around the room. Humiliating me. And I realized that’s what it had all been. Just one long humiliation.

‘It’s true, Samuel.’ I turned to the mirror. Tugged at the zip again, trying to see in the reflection what the problem was, but it remained my trap. My frustrations grew. At you, the dress, myself. Then the scream came from me.

‘Please . . . please stop it, Samuel.’

It worked.

You looked ashamed. As if you’d finally understood how hurtful you were being. You’d been. Grasped everything you’d done.

You stood, paced the room.