My heart was beating too fast. I’d thought I was getting better. Everyone—Georgia, Lina, Dad, even Mum—thought I was getting better, but my heart was racing and I was terrified of what was going to happen next.

‘Fuck.’ It was a croak. I felt a wall at my back, let myself drop against it, closed my eyes. ‘What am I doing?’

Sometimes, late at night, I thought about this. I brought his number up on my phone and I thought about calling him, suggesting that maybe we could have a coffee somewhere and talk, and maybe it would be nice and we could be friends. But I wasn’t ready, wasn’t ever ready.

‘Cait.’

I knew Tom was standing in front of me. I knew the expression on his face. All of this was a repeat.

It was all exactly the same, and I knew how it ended.

Except it wasn’t the same. Something was different.

I was different.

I opened my eyes. ‘Come with me,’ I said, to his chest. I pushed off the wall and turned back to the door.

‘What?’

‘Just …’ I said, pushing it open and going inside. ‘Just come.’

I didn’t know if he was behind me. I assumed he was but I was shaking and I couldn’t look. I sat down on the bed and picked up the postcard Lina had left me.

Have a beautiful day.

I stared at it, stunned all over again, wanted to go and find her and either yell at her or hug her. I wasn’t sure which.

‘So,’ I said, turning the card over, tracing the Empire State Building with my eyes. ‘This is so stupid.’

I looked up. He was in the doorway, hands in his pockets. The thongs and shorts still made me laugh, only now it was through tears, and I wanted to tell him everything. Always.

‘I have a whole shoebox of these. I used to collect them. Lina and I would send them to each other. We talked about going to all these places, but especially this one. It was my one place. We made plans. I wanted to. So much. I tried not to, but I did.’ I touched the picture, wishing it real. ‘It’s a long story.’

I found his eyes. They were so warm.

‘I’ll tell you one day,’ I said. I would. ‘They sell these at op shops. They come in with the deceased estates. It’s pathetic, isn’t it? Buying postcards from cities you’ve never visited to send to your best friend from the postbox at the end of your street, pretending that maybe one day …’ I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It made my heart hurt.

‘It’s not pathetic,’ Tom said softly.