There’s a room in my house that’s full of memories, of all the days we spent in the sun, sitting in the park and watching the cricketers mark the same worn-out paths. Watching dog-walkers in winter with their tiny ornamental dogs in tartan jackets whilst we talked about angels and the day we might leave each other. It’s full of the colour blue where the sky caresses the still ocean on a calm spring day, with the same clarity as the colour of your eyes when they meet mine, deep in conversation and barely saying a word. It’s a room that sings as you enter, taunting melodies written in an afternoon of passion and courage, each nearly-famous echo ricocheting off every wall. But it’s a room without windows, without the beautiful light we like to remember, where the sun no longer rises or sets. Where the dust has thickened over the welts left in the woodwork, the scars made as we dragged out the remains of our broken hearts from our chests, where words became daggers and songs pierced the space between us like a thousand needles.

There’s a room in my house, and the door is locked.