Monday, June 1st, 2016. 5:30 am. My new flat in Croydon. Alone.
I'd been awake for an hour, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat.
Emma had helped me move in over the weekend, a whirlwind of IKEA furniture assembly, unpacking boxes, and stolen moments of laughter and intimacy.
We'd built a home together in three days, a small, one-bedroom flat that was ours, even if it was temporary. Then, Sunday evening, she'd taken the train back to Manchester, leaving me with a kiss that tasted of promises and a future that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"I'll see you in two weeks," she'd said, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride and sadness. "Call me every day."
"Every hour," I'd promised, my voice thick with emotion.
