Ten months ago, we’d both been ill. A virus had rocketed around Sam’s office, and I’d come home from work one day to find him huddled on the sofa, duvet draped over him, a pile of scrunched-up tissues on the floor. Radiators belted out heat, and I’d thrown off my coat and jumper.

‘I think I’m dying, Jenna,’ Sam croaked, stretching his arm towards me, and I’d laughed but as I took his hand it was slick with sweat, and I pressed my palm to his forehead. Despite the fact his teeth were rattling together with cold, he was burning up.

‘Man flu.’ I’d grazed my lips against his hot cheek. ‘Be back soon.’

I’d dashed out to the late-night chemist and stocked up on Lemsip and aspirin, and at home I warmed through chicken and sweetcorn soup. A couple of days later my throat stung, eyes streamed and I shivered so furiously I bit my tongue. We stayed in bed for days. The air grew thick and sour as we binge-watched box sets, volume blaring to drown out hacking coughs. We took it in turns to shuffle to the kitchen, slow and purposeful, like zombies, and fetched snacks we couldn’t swallow, drinks we couldn’t taste. It was such a relief to feel better. To hoist open the sash windows and let the cool breeze sweep away the stench of ill health. Under the shower, hot needles of water peppered my skin and I believed the worst was over.

Sam’s strength returned day by day, but mine didn’t and after about a week I felt so exhausted I was napping in the car during my lunch break, falling asleep on the couch as M&S ready meals blackened in the oven. At night, I’d wake gasping, trying to force oxygen into my lungs, and I’d stick my head out the window and gulp fresh air, wondering what was happening to me.

‘I’ve booked you a doctor’s appointment,’ Sam said one day. ‘Five o’clock. No arguing.’

I was too drained to protest. I sat in the GP’s waiting room, the fug of illness stale and oppressive. The doctor barely listened to my symptoms before he scratched his salt-and-pepper beard and told me what I was experiencing was completely normal and I just needed to rest. He reassured me that my energy would return.

Three weeks later I barely had the strength to get out of bed. I hadn’t been to work in over two weeks.

‘This doesn’t seem right to me,’ Sam said as he stood over me, his face etched with worry. ‘I’ve booked you an appointment to get a second opinion. I’ll be back to pick you up at lunchtime.’

Later that morning I’d hefted myself out of bed and was shuffling to the bathroom when I stopped to scoop the post up from the doormat, and that was the last thing I remembered. Apparently, Sam found me on the hallway floor, lips drained of colour, and I was rushed into hospital, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing.

The next few months were a blur. On one level, I was aware of what was going on around me. I had viral myocarditis which had aggressively attacked my heart function; and a transplant was my only option. Sam was permanently curled up in a ball in the chair next to my bed. Mum plastered on her bright, happy smile and visited every day. Dad paced around the room, hands in pockets, head bowed. The beeping of the machines was the last thing I heard at night and the sound I woke up to in the morning, wondering where I was until I inhaled. There’s nothing quite like the smell of hospitals, of disinfectant mixed with decay; hand gel mingled with hope. I was too weak to read, and I couldn’t focus on the TV.

‘Kardashians or soap stars?’ Rachel would ask as she read aloud from the gossip magazines, but I’d drift in and out of sleep and never could quite keep up with who was divorcing who, or which actress was currently too fat. Too thin. It all seemed so trivial, the things we used to laugh about in the pub, but I was grateful for her company. None of my other friends came to see me.

Before indistinguishable meals arrived on rattling trolleys Mum would prop me up against pillows. I never equated the fact she could hoist me up in bed with the amount of weight I’d lost. She’d cut soft hospital food into small pieces and I’d swallow them whole, too exhausted to chew. What must have run through her mind? Memories of the chubby toddler I was, strapped into my white plastic highchair, mouth open wide like a baby sparrow. How did she cope? I never saw her cry, not once. What no one told me was the doctors thought it was highly unlikely a heart would be found in time. I was dying. The transplant lists were flooded, and although I wasn’t well enough to go home, I wasn’t a priority either. How do you prepare for the worst? I can’t imagine. And I ache when I think of what they must have gone through: Mum, Rachel and Sam sitting around my bed, fingers laced together, as they prayed to a God they didn’t believe in. Dad, helpless and frustrated, visited every day but never stayed for long, and when he spoke there was an edge to his voice as if he was permanently furious, and he probably was. You don’t expect to watch your only child fade away in front of you, do you? Time was interminable: doctors consulted, nurses fussed and notes were made until, one day, a miracle happened.

‘We’ve found a heart,’ Dr Kapur announced.

The heart was a perfect match but there was no celebration as I was prepped for surgery; everyone painfully aware this gift of life only came to fruition through another family’s grief.

The trolley wheels squeaked as I was rolled down the corridor, harsh overhead lights so white it was as if I could be sucked into their brightness and transported to an afterlife I desperately wanted to believe in.

I didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse, but when I woke two days afterwards in intensive care, I felt so ill I almost wished I’d died. Fluids were fed through tubes in my arm, and my chest drain felt as heavy as lead.

One day, by the side of my bed, Sam dropped to one knee, and at first I’d thought it was through exhaustion. I’d reached for the buzzer to call for the nurse when I noticed the black velvet box resting on his palm. A ring – oval sapphire surrounded by sparkling diamonds – inside.

‘This isn’t the romantic setting I’d envisaged, but marry me? Please?’ he’d asked.

‘Sam?’ I didn’t know what to say.

He had lifted the ring from the box and held it towards me. I ran my finger over the stone which was as deep a blue as the ocean.

‘It was Grandma’s. She wanted me to start a new tradition. Passing it down along the family.’

I swallowed hard. My head battling my heart.

‘I can buy another if you don’t like it?’

Sam looked uncertain, younger than his thirty years, and it took every ounce of willpower not to cry. I curled my fingers to stop him sliding the ring on. I knew I’d never want to take it off.

‘I can’t marry you,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Why not? We’ve talked about it before.’

‘Everything is different now. I’m different.’

‘You’re still you.’ He stroked my cheek with such tenderness it was all I could do not to fall into his arms. Despite my unwashed hair, my stale breath, he gazed at me as if I was the most beautiful woman in the world. It tore me apart to look into his eyes and see worry reflected from the place lust once sat.

‘I don’t want to be with you any more, Sam.’ I forced out the words that hurt more than the scalpel that had sliced through my skin.

‘I don’t believe you, Jenna.’

‘It’s true. I’d been having second thoughts about us before all this.’

‘It’s just because you’re ill…’

‘It’s not. I’ve been having doubts for ages. I’m so sorry.’

‘Since when? Everything was fine before?’

Before. Such an innocuous word but there would always be a divide. Before and after. A glass wall separating the things I could do then with the things I couldn’t do any more.

‘Jenna, be honest. Do you love me?’

I was at a crossroads. Truth or lies.

‘I don’t love you, Sam.’ I chose lies. ‘I’m so sorry.’ It was the right thing to do. For him. Sam began to speak but I couldn’t meet his eye. I twisted the starched corner of the bed sheet between my fingers and willed myself to stay strong. He would be better off without me.

He put the ring back in the box, and I jumped as he snapped it shut and crossed the room, his shoulders slumped. I longed to call him back and tell him, of course I loved him, but the words were shackled to my tongue. He hesitated in the doorway and I bit the inside of my cheek hard to stop myself crying his name, my mouth full of metallic blood and regret, and as he carried on walking my gifted heart and guilt pulsed away inside of me.

* * *

Four weeks after my transplant I was discharged from hospital. Mum picked me up.

‘Where’s Dad?’

She ignored the question. She had settled me into the back seat of a taxi showing as much care as the new fathers leaving the maternity wing, clutching car seats cradling newborn babies, and dreams of a perfect future. Mum clicked my seatbelt into its holder despite my protests that I could do it myself and shook out a cotton-wool-soft plaid picnic blanket, placing it over my knees.

‘My daughter’s had a heart transplant. Please drive slowly,’ she said.

‘Blimey.’ The cabbie twisted the dial on his stereo and the music grew fainter. ‘You’re a bit young for that love, aren’t you? Kids! Always a worry, aren’t they? I’ve got three myself. Grandkiddies too.’

The taxi rumbled forward, and the traffic light air freshener swung from the interior mirror, its smell sickly-sweet. We’d crawled along at a snail’s pace – Mum not flinching at the cacophony of horns demanding we speed up – towards the three-bedroom bungalow I’d grown up in.

‘Paint It Black’ began to play: the Rolling Stones were one of Dad’s favourites, and over the music Mum chatted to the driver about what a mild winter it was so far. I closed my eyes, resting my heavy head against the window, slipping off into sleep. The vibrations from the engine made my cheeks tingle.

The sound of shouting roused me. Hard, angry voices climbing in pitch. Dazed I started to push myself upright, forcing open my eyes when the car lurched forward, its wheels gathering speed, and I was thrown back in my seat. Dizzying blackness engulfed me as my head lolled and cracked against the window.

‘No. No. No!’ A woman’s terrified screams rang in my ears and fear raced through my bloodstream.

The brakes screeched. Glass shattered and there was the feeling of flying, my skin burning, bleeding, as shards of glass sliced into my flesh.

My hands flew upwards to cover my face, and then came stillness. Silence. Music? I splayed my fingers and peered out. I was still strapped in my seat. The cabbie’s head bobbed up and down along to ‘Paint It Black’. Mum was telling him how a hard frost was predicted for the coming weekend.

I scrutinised my palms, turning my hands over. No blood. I’d been warned to expect a myriad of side effects with my medication, and as I tried to analyse what happened my head felt fuzzy and I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined the whole thing. The lull of the engine teamed forces with the medication and I rested my head back once more and stared blankly out of the window for the rest of the journey. I must have been dreaming, mustn’t I?