After finishing work on the South Bank one Friday afternoon, a few of us decided to head out for a drink. One turned into two, turned into three, turned into me being at the bar when a tall hunk of a man arrived next to me. He gazed at me, a smile cracking as our eyes met and it was like dynamite was exploding everywhere. Physically, emotionally, mentally – something about his being just had a hold over me straight away.

‘I feel like I should say something profound, witty or memorable,’ he said, having to crouch down to talk into my ear so I could hear over the noisiness of a Friday night in London.

‘And why’s that?’ I asked, looking back up at him, my eyes wide, imploring him to feel what I felt and for this to be more than just a quick poke in the dark before a taxi ride home.

‘Because I hope this is a meeting I’m going to be telling our kids about.’

Boom.

Mic drop.

Right there.

I was his and he was mine.

No mind tricks, no squabbling over lines being blurred or hearts being tampered with.

I took him straight back to mine (much to the hilarity of Zaza, Mike and Pia who we had to stumble past to get to my room) and we made love five times that night. And let’s be clear – it was making love, not like any sex I’d had before. From that point there was a clear distinction in my mind – one is a simple case of getting kicks, the other is that feeling of fulfilment. Of becoming complete in the arms of another. Of having every inch of you touched, caressed and cherished like there’s nothing more divine and reciprocating than that feeling and action for the other – not done out of duty or obligation, but because of the desire and need running through you. It’s a feeling of being one.

Our connection was instant, and I’ve never doubted the firm pull between us.

But.

I don’t like myself right now and therefore it’s a huge ask to accept that someone can love me in the same way they did before. I don’t recognize my body or my mind, my emotions betray me constantly – what could he possibly see in me now?

I’m failing him. Just like I constantly fail my kids. Just like I’ve clearly failed my mate.

Push.

It.

Back.

I take a deep breath to still the thoughts, to stop my heart from drowning in what my mind is trying to tell me.

I get up and attempt to shake it off – moving my head, my arms and my legs. Trying to get the blood pumping and the noise to stop.

‘Breakfast in fifteen,’ Scott calls over.