Page 13 of Exhale

“Love me forever,” I whispered.

“Always,” he whispered back. “Promise you’ll stay.” I heard the plea in his voice, but I’d have promised anyway. I would stay for as long as he wanted me to.

I turned to face him and allowed myself the luxury of just lying there watching him breathe, his beautiful face relaxing more with each slow exhale. His eyes closed, and I wrapped my favourite little curl of his around my finger.

“Leo,” I said. “My Leo.”

“Jamie…” His eyelashes fluttered exhaustedly. “Just give me a few minutes to recover and I’ll get up and get us a drink.”

“No rush,” I said. “We have all the time in the world.”

We did. We had forever.

LEO

So, did our fairy tale pan out? Did I live happily ever after with the supermodel who turned up at Gardener Grove station that Saturday afternoon last spring?

Of course, I didn’t, because life didn’t work that way. Love wasn’t found on Grindr, and people didn’t just fall in love over a Diet Coke in a rundown branch of Costa somewhere in South London. But feelings sometimes had a way of playing you for a fool, and a fool I certainly was.

Twenty-four hours later, he’d left me ugly crying, drained and distraught after a crazy marathon of sex and sweat and laughter, at that very same station. I’d fallen in love with Jamie Walters, just as he’d said I would. He kissed me goodbye with promises of non-stop texting and happily-ever-afters, laughing as I entered his number in my phone asPrince Charmingand he changed my name toMy Dragon-Slaying Princelingin his contacts. Once his train left the station, my heart completely broke, just as it always did. I didn’t trust my belief in him and all his tall tales, and I didn’t trust my own feelings. I knew where I was heading. Straight into heartbreak and despair.

Jamie was as perfect as he’d insisted he wasn’t. He said he loved me and made me smile with every little word that so carelessly spilled from his mouth. His laughter made my body sing. His touches and kisses birthed butterflies in my stomach that wouldn’t go away. I’d floated on promises of a future with him, yet now I couldn’t even remember what he smelled like. I missed the feeling of his hand in mine, his lips on my skin, his fingers in my hair. We’d slept in late that morning, spooned like two entwined souls unable to survive more than a few minutes apart. His body hadn’t left mine for those last precious hours, clinging to me as I had clung to him. I’d hung off his back as he moved around my tiny flat. I’d sat on his lap whenever he took a seat at my desk. And of course, we’d spent most of our short encounter horizontal in bed, mostly with different body parts inside one another.

I’d loved it. Every insane second.

He texted me as he’d promised, every morning and night. Long rants with big words that had me giggling as I read them out loud, hoping that hearing them would make them more real. It didn’t. I doubted every one of them as they’d tumbled out of my mouth. I clung to the hope he’d turn up on my doorstep and sweep me off my feet. I daydreamed of his distant castle, wishing he’d make good on the promised fairy tale that would never be my life. Those kinds of stories only happened to other people—to movie stars and no doubt on Netflix. Jazzed-up stories of true love that could never happen to someone as ordinary and plain as me.

We’d talked about fitting into boxes. He said he wanted to fit into something that he could comfortably call his own, while I’d ranted about how I felt splintered, compartmentalised into traits which, taken together, made me someone who wasn’t easy to understand. He’d assured me he had no trouble understanding me and told me I was easy to love. All lies that now sat uncomfortably in my stomach, mocking me. If I’d been all those things, he’d be here whispering them in my ear, not hiding from me and ignoring my messages.

The following weekend came and went, with neither of us seemingly brave enough to commit to another encounter. My insecurities played up like demons in my head. His texts became shorter and more polite. Mine went from essays to single-word answers. I was heartbroken and frightened, worried that one wrong word would cut off my only line of contact. I looked for him on Grindr, fearing the worst, but his profile was nowhere to be found, our messages left in a box markedaccount deleted.

By week three, my grief turned to anger, my once-carefree self now filled with ideas I knew would never lead to anything good. I wanted to scream, to ring him and shout out all the anger and frustration brewing inside of me. I wanted to text him until he was forced to reply. I wanted him to say those words I dreaded. Better still, say them to my face so I at least knew where I stood. Then my world would truly break apart. I just wanted to see him one last time. I wanted to smell his skin so I could remember his scent. Comb my fingers through his hair. Hear his gruff voice for one final fleeting moment.

Our now bland communications were not enough to fill the giant void he’d left, but I didn’t dare to phone him, fearing the rejection of him not picking up. I’d been burnt before by my stupid impulsive actions—longwinded text rants, passive aggressive threats. I knew not to behave that way, but my compulsion to confront him was hard to control. I wanted to throw myself on a train and go find him, somehow get him to see sense, to see that what we’d had was worth fighting for. He was my prince, and I’d bloody slay any dragon standing in my way.

My nightmares escalated, becoming horrific scenes where he was back with his ex or he’d met someone else, and I’d wake up screaming with pictures of him laughing in my face stuck in my head. This was different from before. I could handle being dumped. What I couldn’t handle was not knowing what was going on. I needed answers, so I could move on. I needed it to stop. Fuck. I needed him.

Then came Friday. He’d last texted me on Wednesday, just some stupid meme and meaningless words about cars and work, and now I was truly, blindingly angry. It was irrational, I knew, but he’d made promises. He’d not said anything about break-ups or going back on his word. In theory, he was still mine, and therefore…

I’d packed a small bag with essentials and was currently standing in my hallway as Hulk meowed at me and stared at the bag in questioning disgust. I had nobody to feed him for a potential pipedream of an overnight stay, something that should have stopped me in my tracks. Instead, I grabbed his bedding and stuffed it into the bag, then I pulled down the dusty travelling cage from my wardrobe and pushed a reluctant Hulk inside it, whispering apologies as I closed the mesh door behind him. He meowed in distress as I burst into tears, wondering how I’d let myself get dragged into this mess, because I’d been here before. I’d suffered more heartbreak than I could keep track of, yet I never learned my lesson. I was back to where I’d promised I would never be again, slobbering snot on my sleeve and wishing someone would tell me how to deal when your body couldn’t function.

He’d promised. He’d so gallantly promised he would love me forever, so why the hell wasn’t he here when I needed him most? Of course, I knew the answer to that one. Nobody needed a pathetic limpet like me. Nobody wanted someone as co-dependent and controlling as I was, and nobody in their right mind wanted to live the way I needed them to. I wasn’t good on my own. I needed to be exactly what he’d called it: one half of a whole. I was only half a person, and he was my perfect other half. Surely, he must have felt it just like I had. He must have meant all those pretty words, and I needed to know that. I needed the validation that I was something to him, or had been, because he was someone to me, and I didn’t want to lose him. The two of us, we bloody fitted together perfectly, and I wanted more. More than he’d ever know I could give him. I wanted everything. The whole fairy tale. Every word he’d promised me, I would hold him to them, because that’s who I was. I took and took and took, and I needed, and he…

I was being ridiculous, but I had to believe. If I didn’t, I may as well just climb up a ladder and throw myself into whatever realm awaited me, because without hope, what did I have left? Another couple of weeks of maddening heartbreak during which I would forget any redeeming qualities left in my already fragile self-confidence.

I grabbed another holdall, rearranging my packing so I could fit Hulk’s empty tray, a fresh bag of litter, a few cans of food and his favourite toy. I hadn’t taken him anywhere for years, not since Mum moved away. But here I was, hoping he’d behave and not cause a scene despite still thrashing around in his cage in distress. Double-locking my front door, I struggled down the stairs, looking like a fool with both bags slung over my shoulder and a screeching cat in a too-small cage. I should have waited and bought him a bigger one, but I didn’t want to daydream anymore. I was already so tense and terrified that my shoulders ached and my eyes stung with tears I was unable to control.

But I did it. I walked, awkwardly, overwhelmed by my bags and the invisible burden on my shoulders, and I somehow boarded a train heading in his direction. I found an empty seat and sat with Hulk scratching around in the cage on my lap.

It was afternoon, so the train wasn’t busy, meaning I was left in peace, just me and my chaotic thoughts. I knew his address because it’d come up in conversation. I knew which Tube station he used. I knew the area and the roads because I’d looked it up on Google Maps. I could already picture the walk in my head, but I still scrolled through the routes on my phone. By the time I reached his station, I was shaking as all the possible scenarios played out in my head. This was exactly the kind of behaviour that had got me into trouble in the past. People didn’t like surprise visits from former one-night stands who couldn’t take a hint. Nobody enjoyed a crazy stalker. People had a right to privacy, and people definitely had a right to say no. He hadn’t said no, not in actual words, but I did know how to read the bigger picture. I wasn’t so dumb as to not notice the clear writing on the wall.

Still, Thorpeton Green Tube station looked eerily familiar as I dragged myself and my bulky belongings off the train. I took a deep breath before rearranging my things, with the bags crossed over my chest, holding Hulk close with both arms so he would stay calm while I negotiated the stairs up to the street. It probably made me look like a homeless hobo, and I cringed when I realised I hadn’t changed my clothes. I was still in a pair of dirty joggers with a hoodie that had seen better days. I’d even slept in these clothes last night, clinging to the last pillowcase that still smelled faintly of a weekend Jamie probably didn’t even remember anymore.

At least I knew where I was and practically walked on autopilot past street signs with names I’d memorised, leafy gardens up one side of the road, neat rows of terraces on the other. People milling around on bicycles and those annoying electric scooters. Couples with children going about their lives as if nothing was wrong in the world. A pub with outdoor seating, full of cheerful souls celebrating the end of another working week. Typical London scenery, in other words, and in the midst of it all, my cat and me, wondering what on earth my life had come to.

I didn’t feel like a dragon-slaying princeling on a rescue mission anymore. I felt like a troublesome child throwing yet another irrational tantrum.

But here I was, standing on the bottom step leading up to the house that I knew was his. A rusted, wreck of a small car sat in the remnants of what might once have been a well-kept garden. The front door was painted a weird shade of violet that stood out against the others in the road. It was just as Jamie had described it to me.

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