Along the towpath, there are more people so it’s harder to maintain the pace and keep myself to myself. As soon as I slow down, though, I start to feel shaky inside, like all my vital organs are being blended into a smoothie. My skin is tingling all over and it feels like someone’s trying to shove a duvet in through my ears. I think about a biology class last term and realise it’s probably the adrenaline kicking in, from the thing I’m already regretting. That lovely wallpaper.

I stop at a bench to rest because my heart’s trying to punch its way out of my chest and I’m pretty sure it’s nearly there. I drop my head all the way down on to my knees, and my throat starts to open and close like a machine gun, pushing a sour taste up into my mouth. I try to spit but nothing comes.

Hunched over that close to the ground, the sound of feet is loud and jumbled and terrifying. Then out of nowhere I remember something Greta said to my mother once, which had come through those earphones clear as a bell over the faint sounds of ‘Baby One More Time’. I concentrate on picking out one set of footsteps, isolating them from the noise and listening to each step as they approach me, until they’re in front of me, then gone. Then I pick out another set and do the same. I’m on the fifth when a group of kids race past, shouting and laughing, and it all falls apart.

A pair of expensive-looking trainers behind a set of pram wheels stops in front of me. I feel a light touch on my shoulder and a soft, uncertain query. Are you OK? No, nice lady, I’m not OK. I’m not OK. My mother tried to do a thing and I think I only just figured out what it means. But shout-out to you for being the only one to ask.

I lift my head up, weighted by the thousand stones holding it down, and say, yes thanks, I’m fine. The blur hesitates a moment, then the pram starts to slowly move on as I drop my head and silently scream. I feel a waft of air as the pram reverses back a bit then moves off again. And then I’m alone, and getting what I pretended to want fills me with breathless, sweaty fear.

It feels like a very long time before I lift my head again. The light has changed, and I look up and down the towpath as feet and bodies and voices start to trickle back into my consciousness. The mums and kids have gone, and now it’s all men in suits and ladies in skirts and trainers. Going home. Imagine that. I can’t go back. Not yet, because how can I look at my mother and know what I know? What it means? I start to walk again, but slower now and I keep my head up. Passando, passando. Coming through. I don’t have a plan, but I have legs.