You just never know where life is going to take you next. Just when you think you have it all sussed out, it goes and kicks you full on in the balls. My mum, the one constant in my life, had cancer. I hated the word slightly less than I hated what it did. She was losing her battle quickly. Chemotherapy had stretched her time by months, but when a scan confirmed her cancer had spread to her bones, like my dad’s, she graciously declined further treatment knowing the additional time it would give her would only be full of pain and upset. She changed her mind later down the line, agreeing to some more chemo, but I knew she had only done it for me. She couldn’t bear to see me so broken. I was all she had.

She was sleeping on the sofa and kept a flask of tea beside her in order to save herself getting up throughout the day. Just making a cup of tea zapped her energy. She had a carer come in every day at 4:00 p.m. to get her ready for bed; she had done since the summer. Mum had always squeezed every second out of her life. In her healthier days, she would be drinking wine by the river at 4:00 p.m. or dining in the newest restaurant that had created a buzz around town. Her quality of life was non-existent, and although she had been given a few months to live, she wasn’t dead yet. I hated that she felt she already was.

I knew I could take her out and get every last drop out of her time left, and, selfishly, because I wasn't around for my dad as much as I should have been. I made the decision because I couldn’t cope with the guilt of dealing with that for the second time.

Life can be painfully strange sometimes. It has the capacity to tip you upside down and shake you around. The woman who had given me life, cared for me, and kissed the grazes when I fell off my bike was now begrudgingly accepting that our roles were reversed. Now I was caring for her, now I was cooking her meals in the hope she might take at least three bites, and now I was kissing her head as she struggled to lift herself off the bathroom floor.

I imagined and rehearsed what I was going to say to Abi. I pictured her rushing into my arms telling me she had changed her mind about coming with me. I had also imagined what inevitably did happen—the cries, the sorrow, the fleeting bangs of hate against my chest with her small fists, and to top it all off, a refusal to join me in what could have been a new chapter in our lives.

After the pain, came the realisation that I had to let her go.

She was too intoxicating to keep at a distance. I would be selfish to keep her to myself when I knew that I could never fully have her as mine. She deserved more than a long distance relationship, a few phone calls and texts on the busy commute home. She needed someone to keep the life in her, to top up her effervescence and keep her arousal rolling with a fire. How could I expect her to keep her true self quiet and diluted until my next weekend visit? She would always be part of me, but I wanted the good memories, not the eventual fizzle of what was once an epic love, lost by long distance and lack of time as life took over, or, in this case, as another life ended.

I was involved in a series of arguments between my conscience and the part of the brain that wanted to carry on, push through all the questions and doubts, and just see where we ended up. I couldn’t do that. We were too important just to leave things to chance.

Abi said that in between the things you want to accomplish, the goals you set and the dreams you want to achieve, is a little thing called life. She asked me why that wasn’t enough. I couldn’t answer her.

I thought about that for most of the night as I cradled my arms around her waist and listened to her deep breaths, comforted knowing that for a few hours, she had an escape from the pain that I had caused. She was right. Life was the point. The bits in between were far more important than career development and a chance to succeed in a job I loved. The bits in between that people took for granted were life. The morning alarms, holding hands on the way to the local for a Sunday roast, the mundane tasks you complained about but would do anything to repeat over and over with the person you’ve lost. Life was love, and I couldn’t be there to make the end of Mum’s life as wonderful as possible if I stayed with Abi.

That thought alone killed me.

For the next few weeks, Abi and I carried on as normal. We talked about how we would fill the time we had left. We planned a final weekend away. We went out to bars and restaurants after work, either just the two of us or with friends. I would watch her dance like she didn’t have a care in the world, which, strangely, made me happy. We didn’t have time to accept the sadness of the situation because that wasn’t how our minds worked. Maybe we were just delaying the pain.

We often sat on the embankment and talked, or she would lie on my lap as I read. I cherished those times the most because I felt like she was soaking into me so that she would be a part of me forever. It was easier to cope if I believed that.

We became silent communicators through our bodies. I couldn’t get enough. Sex had always been a huge part of us. It pulled us back together like a magnet when one of us was wavering. It spoke for us. It blared our feelings out like a loud speaker. It realigned us. I’d never wanted to be a part of someone more. We craved each other as if we knew that we had to make every moment count because soon, we wouldn’t have the intense physical connection.

I fucked her hard and fast on every surface in every room. I made love to her slow and steady on the bed, in the shower, anywhere where I had the time and space to adore every inch of her. I noticed I was marking her more, leaving trails of tiny bruises, purple circles where I had bitten, kissed and sucked my way across her skin. I needed to feel that she was mine and when I saw the marks, they reassured me. I stupidly wished they would be permanent parts of her body, like a scar or a tattoo, so that anyone who tried to touch her knew she belonged to someone else.

The only time she cried was when I left my flat. She helped me pack, but the day the space was empty of furnishings, of belongings, of me, she broke down. She always had to show strength. She found it hard to show her vulnerable side. She kept it hidden, securely locked away.

I cradled her head to my chest. We were surrounded by emptiness that screamed loudly all around us and I wondered if she would find it hard to keep her vulnerabilities securely hidden once I was gone.

Time had run out, and although I loved that we didn’t focus on the shittiness of our situation, I also hated that we were both avoiding the impending end of our relationship.

I had a plan, selfish and completely ridiculous. As we counted down to the day I would leave, it became more real to me that I couldn’t make a clean break, a break I had been the strongest fucking advocate for.