And this was how she sat all evening, alert, wired, hardly blinking – or so it seemed – as she watched the screen. She rubbed at the worn spot on the carpet underneath her desk with her foot, watching for his name to appear. She ignored Owen Willett, who had opened with something about a house party she hadn’t been invited to that upcoming weekend. As the minutes ticked past, and she grew more agitated, she tried to quell the rising panic by running through possible reasons for his absence. A football match that had overrun, maybe, or an argument with his parents? Maybe he was ill, or someone in his family was ill? There would be an explanation.

Not that evening: he didn’t appear at all in the end.

She sat in place for four hours, until past 11 p.m., shoulders hunched around her ears, jaw clenched so hard she developed a headache. Her eyes were dry, her pulse racing. But finally, she got into bed, turned off the light and stared at the ceiling, the occasional slant of light racing from wall to wall as a car drove past. She tried to quell the interior klaxon that blared ‘ALL IS NOT WELL.’

There would be an explanation.

But whichever way she squared it, she couldn’t come up with an excuse to logically explain what happened next, which was a long, yawning stretch of absolutely nothing.

He didn’t appear online ever again.

She had no other way to reach him. And so, for want of any closure, in the weeks and months to come, numb and disbelieving, she read and reread what now would go down as their last messages to one another.

rainham_romeo1991: it’s mad. how we think the absolute same about everything

miss_BehaviourX91: i know

rainham_romeo1991: two halves of one whole

miss_BehaviourX91: that’s exactly how i feel

rainham_romeo1991: good

rainham_romeo1991: right, m’lady. i must to bed

rainham_romeo1991: adieu, until tomorrow x

miss_BehaviourX91: bonne nuit x

And that was the end of that one.

Those days and weeks afterwards were miserable. Having to tell Kate the whole sorry – tragic, really – story one afternoon, as they sat in the changing rooms near the PE hall, under the broken pegs, a bin full of musty, suppurating spare gym kit in the corner. They often sat there – despite the odour – as it was empty (Rainham Girls had a reputation for having the sorriest netball team in the Kent and Sussex area), remote and indoors, and therefore weatherproof.