I’m lying on the floor of an unfamiliar bedroom in a strange house. Despite the absence of the discarded plastic from the new mattress beneath me, the odour still manages to permeate my senses. The cushioning lacks the warmth of contours that can only come from two bodies entwined; it barely softens the harshness of my surroundings. The road outside is deadly silent, the night blacker than any I’ve seen before.

I am petrified.

As I try to settle into my new home, so the house seems to settle around me – every creak and every groan is a stark reminder that this isn’t my home.

I left mine behind.

I woke this morning in my familiar bed, comforted by soft pillows, held within our walls. I turned over and saw the sight of Tom in Annie’s bed, the bed he chose to sleep in rather than sharing ours with me. I longed to reach out to him, to climb into the space beside him, to curl into the shape of him, inhale his scent and hold him one last time. Instead, I dragged myself up and out of the room that held so many memories; the place we used to make love; the room where I gave birth to Annie; the prison that I cried in too many times.

In the shower, I dropped to my knees sobbing, silently calling out to him to come to me, to say the words, “Please stay.”

He didn’t hear me.

He didn’t come.