Monday 22 August

Oliver’s hired the studio for Monday. I should have told him there was no point in paying for an extra session, but I couldn’t say the words. I want another session. I want hundreds of other sessions. I want to ditch life as I planned it and spend every second composing with Oliver.

I walk along Lygon Street thinking about the ideas that Dr Malik talked about in Wellness today. Happiness isn’t simple. There’s always something practical getting in the way of our dreams. If I ditch the exam then I have to go back to the country. And if I go back to the country, I will have lost both futures.

I walk slowly towards the library, dragging out the seconds till I see Oliver and have to tell him. Garlic, tomato, coffee, books – this part of the city feels like freedom to me. I wonder how many of the people around me got to choose their lives, and how many had to make compromises along the way, ending up in a place that was okay but not the one they were desperate for.

I see Oliver’s cello case from a distance, resting against the wall of the library. He’s tapping on his Mac with his left hand the way he does, his right hand steadying it, and every now and then scratching at his chin. He looks up and scans the street, but he’s scanning in the wrong direction, so he doesn’t see me approaching. He’s got one earbud in: one ear in music, one ear to the world. His eyes find me when I’m close enough. He sees me. I see him. We see each other seeing each other.

‘Are you ready for the fusion of information architecture and classical music?’ he asks.

‘I dressed for it,’ I say.

‘So did I,’ he says, and looks down at his feet. He’s shined his old boots. ‘An occasion such as this calls for clean footwear.’

‘I never know when you’re joking.’

‘Assume when it comes to music I’m serious. Assume all else is a joke.’

We walk through the glass doors into the library, up the stairs and into studio. Last time, last time, last time, I think, to the beat of all our steps. There’s no window to the world in the studio, only one to another room. It’s airless and tiny, which didn’t bother me before.

‘You look grim,’ Oliver says.

I give him a small smile to convince him I’m fine, and take up my bow.

I close my eyes and I get this image of the two of us building a city together, a metropolis. Behind my lids, in the darkness, I see the streets forming, the paths bricked by us, these skyscrapers growing. The more we loop and layer, the bigger the city, the more beautiful.

At the end of our session I open my eyes. ‘We’re ready,’ Oliver says, and it’s the saddest sentence. Because it’s true. All the practicing, arguing, composing, kissing, living, have added up to this piece of music.

And it’s been a waste.

We walk out of the studio, back down the stairs, and onto the street. Later, I might remember all the things we talked about on our way to the tram stop: looping software, Zoë Keating, Emilie Autumn, electronica music, the dusky sky, the cloud above us shaped like a mouse, the myth that egg cartons can soundproof a room, the hassle of taking cellos on public transport, the Iceland auditions.

But I have a feeling all I will ever remember from this day, this year, is the look that will be on Oliver’s face when I tell him I can’t audition.

‘Oliver . . .’ I say, about to lay the problem out for him so he can help me decide.

‘All your thoughts move across your face while you’re thinking. You know that?’ Oliver says.

‘What am I thinking?’

‘You mumble. I can’t quite understand it. When you play the cello your face is dead serious and twitching.’

‘Oliver,’ I say again, and then he leans in and kisses me.

‘Can I come to the formal with you?’ he says. ‘I mean, will you go with me?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him, and decide to give us this moment, this night.

I’ll tell him when I get back from my weekend at home. I think maybe I’m hoping for some kind of miracle.