It's been very hot here in the UK and I haven't had a chance to change my sheets in the last few days, so I decided to sleep on the other side of the bed for some fresh linen, which was always where she slept.

I started to think about her: the sound of her breathing, the way she laid in repose, when I could reach out and place a hand on her cool, pale skin for reassurance. One of the last photographs I have of her is her asleep in this spot, just before she moved out of the bedroom. I started to feel sad, I started to imagine her and her new life, laying in her new bed, in her new house, and inevitably, with her new boyfriend.

But, instead of feeling morose and spiralling into abject woe I was able to acknowledge that and let it go, and lay down for some well deserved rest of my own. I've become so accustomed to thoughts of her flinging me down an abyss it was quite a relief.

Common wisdom would suggest she's probably just masking her pain and guilt by monkey-branching, and her continued narrative of 'escaping' a 'bad relationship' is to portray herself as having the best life now. I feel like this one small involuntary act of mine a foundation stone, rather than the papier mache set-dressing I see in hers.

Thank you for reading.