I thought about Lina. She’d be devastated. Dad, Mum. Mum would blame me, shake her head and ask what I’d been doing there. Nic and Holly—they’d be sad. Nic would be annoyed he had no-one to run the bar. And Tom.

Would he be sad? How would he even find out? Would he read about it on the internet but not put two and two together until he caught a photo of me on the morning news? Would they use one of me with pink hair? Or one from when I was at uni, during my brief goth phase? Would they paint me as a good-time girl, drunk and stupid? Or go back earlier and choose something innocent, from high school?

Would he recognise me? Would he care, if he did? I bit my lip and I could still taste him and for a second I wanted more than anything for him to care.

And then I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream and beg and run.

I wasn’t ready.

The thought overwhelmed me, pushed through my chest.

I wasn’t ready.

The footsteps stopped, and I tried not to look but I looked, saw the figure still at the end of the overpass, broad shoulders and a dark head of hair, maybe a beanie. He fumbled for something, arms coming forward and up, and I heard the spark of a lighter. I tried to breathe deeply, as deeply as I could. Smell the exhaust fumes and the Chinese food and stale piss. The last things I would ever smell, unless—

The footsteps started again as he resumed walking towards me. I looked down, eyes on the tracks below, made two fists, nails digging into my palms, toes curled up in my shoes, stomach in knots. My keys were in my bag. I considered reaching for them but I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to let him know I knew. I hadn’t learned well enough—all those self-defence tips and I’d left my keys in my bag. So stupid. Everyone would think I was so stupid.

I took another breath, trying to make myself as small and invisible as possible, to disappear, so he couldn’t see me. I wished away the smell of my shampoo, my sweat, which suddenly seemed so strong.

I closed my eyes, waiting. Counting. Listening to the footsteps, the rhythm, steady, a barely perceptible skip as he passed behind me. A mumbled greeting.

I inhaled sharply, not sure how to respond.

I could smell it. Hot and rusty and sour.

Are you okay? Are you hurt? Can you count to ten?

Yes. No. One two three four five six …

Okay, that’s okay.

Glitter. Not glitter.