Packing up my life to transfer it one hundred and twenty-seven miles north was no small task. I had enough clothes to last me for the next fifty years and a bright sock collection I didn’t even know I’d built up. Clearing out the wardrobe was the worst job because I knew what lay at the back of it collecting dust but otherwise pristine.

Letters.

All twenty-nine. I had memorised every one of them. Letters I had cried and laughed over. Letters signed with an infinity symbol entwined with our initials at either end, promising an everlasting connection.

One letter that broke us apart irrevocably.

I reached into the space, pushing aside a heavy bunch of clothes and grabbing the letters from their hiding place at the back. For a second, I thought about shredding them, but I knew I couldn’t do that. They were a record of our love. A love lost in so many ways that I couldn’t keep track.

In the first few letters, I poured out my deep regret at leaving, which became an all too familiar theme.

I had always kept them in order, tied together with a thin piece of leather I’d found in Mum’s sewing box. Whenever I caught the smell, I was rushed back to them. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could see her handwriting.

At first, my responses were desperate, needy and so utterly selfish. Another letter would arrive that was more hopeful than the last. Fuck, I needed that. I needed to know that she was still with me. She always had a naturally positive outlook, believing that we would find a way back to each other. I believed that too until it became clear that I could never go back. Now every single one of those letters backed it up and made it a terrifying reality.

The letters felt like a lifetime ago. So much had changed in the last year that I no longer recognised myself. I lived my life like I was working my way through the fog of jet lag where you feel like you’re drifting but still aware of everything going on around you. Low voices, car doors slamming shut, engines starting, or maybe the low buzz of a television, numb to the real world and what’s going on inside it. That had been my survival mode since Abi. Everything had been hazy, like I’d been outside looking in, never fully part of it, but always there.

* * *

I had to get out of the flat. Memories threatened to absorb me.

Lately, if I wasn’t in the pub delaying the journey home, I was in the library reading the latest research papers. The library won tonight. A classic Dawson delaying tactic, but at least it didn’t make me feel so guilty. This time, I’d selected a paper on the impact of mindfulness in secondary schools and how setting up groups had reduced outbursts of anger and impacted on a lower exclusion rate. It kept my attention for most of the hour, but as night drew in, I found myself drifting into memories I normally kept hidden away in the back of the don’t go there part of my brain. I knew that once I opened it, there would be no going back.

I’d started to think about my new job and tried to get my head focused for a change in pace—a fucking massive change in pace. I didn’t normally let myself get weighed down with doubts and anxiety, but I had them both firmly attached to my ankles ready to weigh me down in the water.

Was it the job, or something else?

I knew the answer. It was the thought of bumping into the bright green-eyed girl I’d left behind years ago. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel her hair falling through my fingers. If I bowed my head, I could still see her smile. If I leant back, I could still hear her whimpers and moans as I worked her body in the way only I knew how. Twenty-four months. One hundred and four weeks. Seven hundred and thirty days since I had last trailed my hands across her beautiful skin. How many others had touched her since then? Fuck, I couldn’t begin to go there. I’d let my mind wander once before and ended up in A&E requiring six stitches. A woman sitting opposite me in the library had the same length hair as Abi, but it wasn’t as shiny. I was sure that if I went over to catch her scent, not only would she punch me in the balls, but it wouldn’t smell the same. I needed vanilla and coconut like an addict needed their fix. I kept a bottle of her body wash in the shower just to give clarity to the memories. Why can’t I get that hair out of my mind? Why can’t I get her out of my mind? I couldn’t remember my life before her, or what life was like without her being part of it. Her presence was everywhere, like a shadow following behind me.

Would her memory ever leave me? Would I ever want it to?