During my time with Jack, we’d had the odd chat about Christmas – you know, family traditions, memories of meeting Santa – but we never discussed how we’d spend the next one. We never got that far. In the end I’d enjoyed a quiet Christmas back at home, but I stayed with Kit and Gareth rather than my mum and dad. They got a sofa bed as a wedding gift from Gareth’s aunt, so luckily I wasn’t forced to spend Christmas Eve in a tent. I realise I’ve said enjoyed. I did. With the strength and love of my brother and brother-in-law, we embraced a different Christmas, indulged in festive activities we always said we’d do each year but never got round to doing; ice skating, going to see It’s a Wonderful Life at the Philharmonic Hall, building a gingerbread house with Gareth’s nieces. On New Year’s Eve, sitting in Kit and Gareth’s kitchen with Mabel nibbling my slouch socks, and before getting my creative genius into a serious game of Pictionary, I decided to read Justin’s message;

Hey there Chloe, look what I did. I hope this makes you smile. Jx

Attached was a photo. Of Justin. Sat in a shopping trolley.

Outside a Seven Eleven at night-time, he was giving a double thumbs up. His long legs, in purple traveller trousers patterned with tiny white elephants, were outstretched and crossed at the ankles, his calves resting on the edge of the trolley, his flip-flops flapping away from his hardened heels. Behind bushier facial hair than I’d remembered him with, his grin was goofy, his eyes dancing with a self-conscious chuckle. I imagine he’d asked another backpacker to take his picture and maybe there was a faff, or somebody walked past the pose, allowing Justin a bit too much time to feel silly, wishing he hadn’t bothered with the effort.

Beneath the photo was another message, sent some days later.