Trish and John must’ve told them.

They’ll be looking for a new tenant. It’s only polite to inform the neighbours.

I stand in the hallway, chuck my keys into the blue Marrakech dish, miss, and watch them fall to the carpet. I drop my cardigan; my heels; the flowers, too. I walk through our flat, brushing my middle fingers along each wall. A pair of Jack’s trainers obstructs the small space between the coffee table and the telly. How have I only just noticed that?

I open the fridge and stare at the sparse shelves: butter, an old onion, a splash of tonic water that’s gone flat. No grapes. The funeral plays over in my mind. I fast forward the worst parts, rewind the lighter moments. During the video montage, the volume of the (inappropriate) Queen song had dipped so the mourners could endure Jack’s Ali G impression, caught on an old camcorder. How I’d cringed in that back pew.

Sorry, Jack.

‘Who was that guy?’ I ask the ceiling, as you do. ‘Because he wasn’t you.’

And Florrie. That hat.

I’d been open with Jack about my previous relationships; trial and error, I’d liked to call it. I’m no hopeless romantic but in the last few years, I’d started to become intent on finding a partner in crime. Maybe it was seeing my brother happy, his wishes coming true. Maybe it was biology. I dated. Lots. Even at work, I’d engage in a staffroom flirt over instant coffee. Last year, chaperoning a Duke of Edinburgh trip, I snogged my colleague – a Geography teacher – once torches were out and teens were (apparently) asleep. My mind and heart were open to finding love; any time, any place. I had no experience of heartbreak, only disappointment. And a fair few dry, lonely spells. Jack knew all this: I hid nothing from him. Well, I had nothing to hide.

And Jack?

‘Plenty of flings,’ he’d said. ‘But I’ve never been in love.’

When I asked him if there were any skeletons in his closet, he told me about a girl he fingered in an actual closet, dressed as a skeleton. He was sixteen: a Halloween party at his mate’s house. We rolled about laughing, exchanging horror stories of our youth. We didn’t backtrack.

But Jack and Florrie – what happened between them?

‘I guess we were only five months in,’ I say, matter-of-factly, leaning back against the sink. ‘We still had plenty to discover.’

The fridge door looks back at me, a glorious mishmash of memories and plans. It’s so alive. To my left, I can see Jack popping his head out of the kitchen door, checking to see if it’s warm enough to have a beer outside. To my right, he’s there again, hanging his wet socks on the radiator.