It was morning now, not yet ten, but the woman behind the desk had warned her that they would be closing at midday. Bonnie had two hours in which to tell the next chunk of her story, which should have been plenty, but she found herself delaying. She had reached the part where everything had begun to spiral out of control, and reliving it now, trying to recall all the emotions she had felt, was making the pitter-patter of anxiety tap-dance its way through her chest. Picking up her pen, she wrote, ‘Isn’t it extraordinary how much power love can have over you?’ And then scribbled it out.

Because it wasn’t love that was to blame for what happened; it was someone else’s abuse of it.