I’m almost certain now I should do the trial, but I wish I knew what Adam wanted; a glance towards his impassive face gives me no clues. My eyes flutter closed. I try to conjure his voice. Imagining he might tell me what to do. Past conversations echo in my mind as I search for a clue.

If you love someone, set them free, he had once told me but I brush the thought of this away. I don’t think it can apply to this awful situation we have found ourselves in. Instead I recall the feel of his body spooned around mine, warm breath on the back of my neck, promises drifting into my ear.

Forever.

I cling on to that one word as tightly as I’d clung on to his hand.

I loved him completely. I still do. Whatever happens now, and after, my heart will still belong to him.

Will always belong to him.

I must hurry if I’m going to reach him before it’s too late.

A 3 per cent chance of survival.

There’s a tremble in my fingers. I begin the letter, which will be both an apology to Mum for the risk I am taking, and an explanation, but it seems impossible to put it all into words – the story of Adam and me.

Us.

I really don’t have time to think of the life we had – the life we almost had – but I allow myself the indulgence. Memories gather: we’re on the beach watching the sunrise; I’m introducing him to my mum – his voice unsteady with nerves as he says hello; we’re meeting for the first time in that shabby bar. Out of order and back to front and more than anything I wish I could live it all again. Except that day on the yacht. Never that day.

Again the vice around my lungs tightens. In my mind I see it all unfold and I feel it. I feel it all: fear, panic, hopelessness.

Breathe, Anna.

In and out. In and out. Until I am here again, pen gripped too tightly in my hand.

Focus.

I made a mistake.

I stare at the words I have written so intently they jump around on the page. It’s the harsh truth. I had thought that I wanted to live without him.

I don’t.

I’m at a loss to know how to carry on. I look to Adam for inspiration and I remember one of the first things he had said to me: ‘Start at the beginning, Anna.’

And so I do.

Seven years ago. I pause. Recalling our first week. That visit to the author’s house. Me touching the typewriter. Adam asking if I’d ever thought of crafting my own book.

‘Everyone has something to say – it’s a matter of figuring out what that something is. What would you write, if you could?’ Adam had asked.