I couldn’t just leave it.

Anyway, he’s not replied.

I think we might have spoiled everything. This is what happens when you get drunk with somebody and share your innermost thoughts. You cock things up, because there is no going back to the person you wanted them to see. They can see the other, naked you.

Noah is naked, and he never wanted to be with me. I’m not stupid, I know it’s not me personally. He doesn’t want to be stripped bare in front of anybody. So, he grins and flirts and gets along just fine.

I understand, I truly do. I have my own barriers. I know the version of Rosie that I want the world to see. But this does hurt: the feeling of loss, the feeling that we might have spoiled things and can’t go back to the way we were. If he’d just reply to my bloody texts it would be okay.

It is making me feel sick and churned up inside.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s not just the thought I’ve lost Noah that is making me feel a mess, it’s everything.

I am so glad I don’t have to go into work today. It’s not just that I have an alcohol induced hangover, I’ve also got a mental hangover – total brain ache. I zonked out the moment my head hit the pillow, then was awake two hours later feeling slightly sexually frustrated and majorly annoyed with myself. Sending texts that I shouldn’t.

What was that last night? I really could have grabbed Noah and kissed him. As in totally snogged his face off. Tonsils, tongues and tits as my mate at school used to say when we were young and hormonally challenged.

We were drunk; definitely, totally smashed. And I was sad for him, so it would have been wrong; it would have been a pity snog. That’s it!

No, it wouldn’t, who am I trying to kid. I really wanted to snog him. I wanted to feel his hands on me. I wanted him to rip off my new sexy underwear and ravish me.

Oh shit.

I put my hands on my hot cheeks.

This is not good.

If he hadn’t been the gentleman he is, then last night could have ended in disaster.

Or would it? I mean, from what he said he’s not the player he comes across as. He’s just scared of love.

Although isn’t that what players are? They’re not all shits who like the chase and the power. Some of them just can’t commit.

I lay my hot forehead against the cold glass. It helps for a split second.

I can’t date somebody who can’t commit. I can’t. I can’t be like my mother. In love with the fantasy version of a man.

I’m in dangerous water. Noah was seriously upset last night; he genuinely cares about his friend Jed and it nudged something deep inside me. He’s a good man, a nice man. He’d make a brilliant friend – but how do I make sure I don’t try and make him out to be more in my head?