Free This is a Love Story by Jessica Thompson

turned the key in the door. Maybe Amelia had created a floor mosaic out of raw meat spelling the word ‘Fuckwit’, or even worse, taken my Radiohead CD. The very worst-case scenario would be if she was still here . . .
    I slowly made my way into the corridor. ‘Amelia?’ I called out, the fear obvious in my voice as it echoed down the hall. Looking down at my feet, I saw the key gleaming on the mat. Phew, I was safe.
    I shuffled cautiously into the kitchen and saw a folded-up piece of paper. I began to read.
    Nick,
What can I say?
I ruined the best relationship I have ever had in my life and I will probably never forgive myself for this.
I am deeply sorry for the pain I might have caused you.
If it helps in any way, the person who is hurting the most in all this is me.
People like you don’t come around often, and I may never meet another.
If you ever find a way to forgive me, I will be waiting.
Love you,
Amelia
x
     
    Well, you had to give it to the girl, that was truly heart-wrenching. I looked at a photo of us pinned to the fridge with a Honey Monster magnet. We looked so happy. Behind us were the rambling hills of the Lake District, and the bright sun had created a white flash in one corner of the photograph. A flaw in an otherwise perfect moment.
    The true enormity of what had happened suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. My house now felt huge, even though it wasn’t that big. A two-bedroom terraced place that seemed like a sprawling mansion now I was alone.
    I had put the deposit down on it with money left to me by my grandmother. Mum and Dad helped out a bit too. I was lucky to have this house at such a young age, but right now I felt so alone in it. I would probably have to get a lodger now to help with the mortgage. Great.
    I had thought I was too angry about what Amelia and Toby had done to feel sadness like this. I’d been so incandescent with fury that I’d hated the thought of her; only now was I starting to feel her loss.
    I suddenly remembered what this stage of a break-up felt like; it was all coming back to me now. It was like a really bad stomach bug after a dodgy takeaway. At the time you feared you might die with your head stuck down the toilet and a hole blown out of the seat of your trousers, then just a few weeks later you had completely forgotten how terrible it was. It was as if the experience had been so traumatic that your mind had dulled its memory enough for you to get all cocky again. Otherwise you would never be able to walk down a street with a curry house on it again. And that would make living in London quite difficult. With feelings, it was tricky. One minute you might be making a coffee or shopping for milk and cereal, and then bam – out of nowhere the inescapable would come and sting you. Those emotions you’d buried under a heap of male egotistical bullshit. All the crappy phrases your friends had reeled off to salve the wounds: ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, mate,’ or ‘We never really liked her anyway . . .’
    But I wasn’t sure whether I missed her, or whether I was scared of my uncertain future.
    The loud ticking of the kitchen clock only affirmed the fact that I was alone. I’m not a big boozer, I don’t really drink on my own, but I poured a small amount of whisky into a glass and trickled some Coke on top.
    I pulled a Marlboro Light out of my jacket pocket and lit it with a match. The smoke instantly surrounded me in our small, clean kitchen, dirtying every nook and cranny with its nasty brown fingers.
    I sat there for what seemed like hours, feeling the numbing effect of the alcohol settling into my legs. Taking deep drags on my cigarette I experienced the familiar buzz of nicotine and I convinced myself I deserved it. I had totally earned this moment of hideous self-indulgence, but I would definitely regret it when I woke up at 3 a.m. to get to the airport.
    Nick. Twenty-seven. Single. The labels spun round and round in my head.
    Nick. Twenty-seven. Single . .