‘When I got that phone call, all I could think was that I was going to lose him like I lost Mum, that history was repeating itself. I felt so selfish thinking that just when I started to dream again it would all be taken away from me once more – that my notes to self would have been for nothing.’

It comes tumbling out like a stream of consciousness and I don’t realise what I’ve said until I spot the confusion on Joel’s face.

‘What notes to self?’

I take a deep breath. It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose by telling Joel about the emails. He’s never been one to judge and has always put me at such ease that I feel like I could share almost anything with him.

‘When we were at Hartland’s all those years ago, I started writing emails to myself.’

‘Right. Like some sort of diary?’

‘Sort of, but they were emails to the future.’ It sounds so far-fetched. ‘I used this site called Note to Future Self that stores your emails and then sends you them at the date that you’ve set. Sort of like a time capsule. So, I’d decided to write to my thirty-five-year-old self. They were mainly little insights into my eighteen-year-old mind, but the emails would end with these little challenges, which were cheesy and cringey, but somehow, I’ve found myself doing them.’

‘Like some sort of bucket list?’

‘Along those lines but more like try something new, do something that makes you laugh, step out of your comfort zone, et cetera.’

‘Skive off work?’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘Something like that, yeah.’ I rub at my tear-stained face. ‘The emails reminded me of that summer and that’s why I looked up Soph.’

‘Now it all makes sense.’ He runs his hand through his hair. ‘This all sounds a bit sci-fi to me.’

‘I know. I can’t believe it actually worked, to be honest. Usually I’d be sat at reception during a quiet shift and play around with words and notes, never thinking anything would ever come from it. It was just a bit of fun.’

‘You wrote them when you were on reception?’ he says, sitting up a little straighter.

‘Yeah, if no one was about.’

‘And you didn’t ever receive a copy of these emails when you sent them?’

‘No, you’d write your messages on the website, click send and that’s the last you’d see of them until they’re delivered on the pre-arranged date. To be honest, I’d completely forgotten that I’d even written them until I received the first one on my birthday.’

‘And you’ve been getting them regularly?’

‘Yeah, but it’ll stop after next Wednesday, as I never wrote any more emails after my mum died.’

‘Next week?’ His voice has gone up an octave.