I immediately duck behind a beige car. The pain inside me makes everything go black for a second and I have to steady myself against the dusty car-door. No, this can’t be happening again. History can’t be repeating itself. Ben and Matthias. Matthias and Ben. Matthias sitting by the kitchen table telling me they’d been looking at Mamiya cameras in one of his lessons, even though he actually hadn’t been at the photography school for months. Ben who told me I was stuck with him forever, and who’s now with someone else. Please no, not again. My whole body is burning and I’m struggling to breathe. I never knew that feelings could lead to such physical pain. A woman walking past the car looks at me strangely, so I get up and start running back to the train. I run and run. I run past a gang of teenage girls who yell something I don’t quite catch. I run past the Starbucks and the Tim Hortons.
I’m proud of myself for not crying on the train. I don’t cry on the walk back to the hotel. I don’t cry as I say hello to the Asian man in reception and walk up the stairs at the hotel. I don’t cry as I take off my clothes, shower, put my pyjamas on or brush my teeth. It’s only when I’ve crept in between the bedside table and the bed, so that I’m completely hemmed in, that I allow the tears to flow.