It happened so quickly. I sat there, wedged in the too-narrow chair, a drink lodged uselessly in my hand as the colour drained from my world. Then a sharp intake of breath as the harsh, inescapable fact of it hit me: an invisible punch to the chest.

My first impulse was to run, escape – hide. God only knows what I blurted out by way of goodbye as I gathered my things together and stumbled to the door.

Homeward bound, I cycled through all the emotions you’d expect – shock, anger, betrayal, humiliation. Back home I stood under the shower for hours, weeping, trying to wash it all away. But when I wiped the steam from the mirror, it was to find the same desperate reflection staring back.

Why didn’t I see it coming? In retrospect, it’s so clear. The warning signs were there. But I was so convinced that everything would be fine – so wanted everything to be fine – that I ignored them.

God. I feel so stupid.

Alone in my flat, I desperately scan our conversations for the thing, the things – the idiotic, pointless things I must have said to make this happen. And I’m tormented by an unending tickertape stream of things that remain unsaid: the doubts unaddressed, the instincts stamped down, the reassurances that could have been made, but weren’t. And it’s too late. Too late to say anything. Too late to save it.

I so desperately want to have hope, but how can anything be salvaged from this? The roots of what we – of what I once had are so, so damaged.

This is the worst fucking haircut I’ve ever had.