My eyes sprang open. It was morning, light surrounding the edges of the drapes like a halo. I had all my clothes on, and I was on top of the quilt, hair smushed, like a doll tossed aside after playtime was over. My jaw was tight. I’d been grinding my teeth, something I did when I was scared, a habit from childhood that was impossible to break.

I still hadn’t gotten used to waking up without Davis. It was hard not to imagine him in his spot, legs tangled among the sheets, the nook of his shoulders ready for me to nestle into. His blond hair unkempt, his cowlick untamed, his thick glasses, ones we’d picked out together, sitting on the nightstand, waiting. His eyes fluttering open – Morning, babe.

Now his place in bed was occupied by a grease-stained box of Cicero’s pizza. The smell of sausage turned my stomach.

For better or worse, Davis had become an integral part of my life very quickly. There to accompany me to a friend’s birthday party. There to see the latest indie movie, try a recipe I’d found online, listen to the new LCD Soundsystem album and have an hour-long debate about whether it was any good. There to crack a nerdy joke about the incest vibes in Star Wars. To hold me when the grief of missing my parents made me, occasionally, inconsolable. Eventually, there to welcome me fully into his apartment, his world. To warm the bed, to be my partner in dog ownership, our shared responsibility making Dusty, my everything, a possibility …

There to toss all those possibilities straight to hell. To reveal his true self to me, little by little. To redefine my understanding of the concept of surprise.

Dusty jumped up, sniffing at the leftover pizza.

‘Down,’ I said, tasting a gummy bitterness in the back of my throat. ‘We’ll go in a minute.’ My phone sat on top of the box, ominous. I tapped it to life. It was after eleven. No calls or texts, but it’s not like there would be. Davis didn’t have my new number, my SIM card made sure of that.

I pulled myself out of bed, then peeked through the drapes just as a car drove slowly past. I forced myself to take a deep breath. I would have to let go of this, this feeling of being watched. I let the drapes fall shut, careful that not even an inch of window was exposed, then approached the mirror hanging on one side of the door. There, framed by my unruly brown curls and impossible to miss, was the bruise. Angry and white in the middle, purple and blue, watercolor splotches, at the edges. Circling my cheekbone like a bull’s-eye, about three inches across.