I wrapped my arms around you, on the last day of September. As the train rattled through the countryside, bound for London and the rain, I had this funny feeling that wouldn’t go away.

I remember how I didn’t want to reach the platform. How happy I’d have been to stay snuggled in to your side for hours on end, as fields merged in to tower blocks and the sky grew heavy.

When I mindlessly got in to my Uber later that day, I smashed my ankle against the car door, hard. That journey back was painful in more than one way. That was the day I realised I loved you.

I had this gnawing fear, that maybe I would not ever get to tell you how I felt. The fear followed me like an angry black cloud. Every time we said goodbye, I’d worry it would be the last. That maybe I’d say something stupid, or you would – and we’d burst apart at the seams. And sometimes, on the bad days, we did.

Sometimes I think about that train journey. How sad I was to have to loosen my grip, to let you go and watch you walk away. I wanted desperately to go with you, to spend just one more day in your company, telling ghost stories and laughing like idiots at stupid things. Sometimes I’m back on that platform – with words I can’t express and emotions I can’t quite understand. Just wanting to take your hand and go home with you.

I still hope that one day, we’ll get off that train and go home together, no more goodbyes and no more black clouds.

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