‘Look, I’m going to be late and need to finish up. Why don’t you go and shut down reception? Then we can get out of here.’

So I did. Somehow. I finished inputting Mr Hammond’s notes. Turned off the computer. Washed up the mugs.

Soon you appeared in reception, bag in hand. ‘Ready?’

I nodded. Put on my coat. Collected my bag.

You didn’t notice my inability to speak. That no blood circulated my face. That I couldn’t look at you.

We stood a foot from each other. You dropped your bag and followed with your head. Then pulled me towards you, hugged me. I breathed in hard. To take a part of you away with me.

‘You’re so great, Constance. Most girls get all . . . you know . . . crazy when you end things, but I knew you’d be cool.’ You released me.

I smiled, turned towards the door.

‘Hey, we should get a sandwich at lunch tomorrow,’ you said. ‘Jesus, I’m gagging for that pint . . . What you up to this evening?’

‘I’m . . . I’m not sure.’ I barely heard myself, so I doubt you did.

Outside, at the bottom of the steps, we said goodbye and parted ways. I walked away, my head held high, not out of pride but in order to keep me upright. I’d not got very far when I felt you next to me. I stopped. Tried not to crumble with hope.

‘Constance . . . look, I know I don’t have to say this, but still, obviously, no one can . . . you know . . . find out about anything happening between us, right? It would be bad. For both of us, I mean.’

It didn’t matter that I hadn’t responded. ‘You’re the best, Constance. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ You walked away, then turned back to shout, ‘Let’s definitely get that sandwich.’

I walked, eyes glazed. Smoked. As each cigarette ended, I began another. I was a robot. And you’d pressed a button that released immeasurable pain. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t cry. Faster and faster and faster I strode the streets. When I reached the Tube, to my surprise, I passed it by. Carried on. To fuck knows where. Just walked, walked, walked until I eventually hit a filthy dead end. Facing a high brick wall with the word ‘tosser’ sprayed in red. A rat scurried from a nearby bin and disappeared beneath an abandoned sofa supporting a bowing mattress.

Instead of turning back round, I lit my last fag, threw the empty packet onto the sofa. Heaved. There were too many to cope with. Feelings. All with nowhere to go. I approached the wall. Placed the fag in my mouth, left it there. And then I prayed to God for release as my fist hit the bricks.

I still have the scar. I’m looking at it as I write. So small compared to the ones that cannot be seen.

I was still …