I hear my front door slam shut, and I’m left alone. All alone. Rashid is gone. I feel numb. It’s over. I broke us. Rashid is gone. I felt numb before, but this is different. Rashid is gone. Before, there just wasn’t anything in me. Now I know what it feels like to have something, to have my insides filled with tenderness, with love, with… Rashid. He’s gone. Ripped out of me by a few stupid words.

I pour my coffee out. I didn’t touch it. I watch the black liquid swirl down the drain. Disappearing into nothingness. Just like I am. My hands grab the countertop trying to steady myself. The world is spinning. Out of control.

“You were supposed to trust me.”

His words ring in my ears.

“Do you really think I’d do that to you?”

But you did, Rashid. You left me in the dark, and he filled it with lies.

“That bastard can lie all he wants – but the only way he wins is if you believe him over me.”

Did he win? Did I let him win?

“You let him rewrite everything we had with a single phone call.”

Everything we had… everything… we had… I can’t breathe.

“I’m not the one who gave up, Wendell. That was you.”

I take Rashid’s coffee mug and empty it into the sink. It’s still warm from his touch. It happens so fast, I don’t even register where it’s coming from. I’m retching – bile and acid clawing up my throat, mixing with the bitter traces of coffee in the sink. I’m heaving, bent over, even though there’s nothing solid left inside me. My stomach spasms like it’s trying to expel itself.

I curl up in a foetal position on the floor. I didn’t even realise I sat down. My chest contracts painfully. I want to sob. I want to scream, but it just hurts too much to make a sound. I try to breathe, but my throat is closed, and I gasp for air like a fish out of the water. My nails dig into the little rug in front of my kitchen counter. I don’t know how I got there. My fists pound the floor. It hurts, but not as much as the pain inside of me.

I hear a low noise next to me, and soft fur brushes against my face. Bruno, my clever cat, pads over quietly and butts his head into my hand. I don’t react. I can’t. Moving is too hard. Bruno squeezes stubbornly into my tight self-hug like he’s saying, “You can hate yourself all you want. I’m not going anywhere.” And I do. I hate myself, my stupid self-sabotaging self. I single-handedly destroyed the one good thing that ever happened to me in my entire life. And in the process, I hurt the one person that matters the most to me in this world. I could see it, every one of my words cutting into him like a knife. But did I stop? Did I have mercy with him? No, I didn’t. I just went on and on and on. He will never forgive me. And why should he? I can’t forgive myself.

I sink my fingers into Bruno’s soft fur and pull him close. Bury my face against his side and inhale his unique Bruno scent. He smells like sunshine from his nap on the rooftop terrace, and there’s just a hint of popcorn. Wherever that comes from. He lets me manhandle him without protest, patient as always. His purring – a low, comforting rumble – fills my ears. I try to match my breathing to his rhythm. Finally his warmth thaws something in me, and the tears start to fall. Slow and in between gasps at first, then all at once, like a river. I cry into his small body, clinging to him like I might drown.

I don’t know how much time passes. It’s just me and Bruno, huddled together, breathing. Breathing is good. When I finally move to get up, Bruno gives me a head bump as if to say, “You alright, buddy?” I kiss his forehead and rub his back as a wave of gratitude washes over me. I’m not okay. But I’m grateful for my cat and his unconditional support. I go to the sink, wash down the rest of my vomit and drink a glass of water. I have no idea what to do next. Rashid is gone. I let him go. The jolt of pain that sears through my gut is making me double over.

I pick up Bruno and take him outside. I sit down on my deckchair, and Bruno makes himself comfortable on my lap. It seems he’s still hesitant to leave my side, still unsure whether I’m alright. I’m still not. I lie on my side, Bruno placed in front of me, and watch him fall asleep. I wish I could. My mind is empty. I’m afraid to think in case it brings back the memory of Rashid’s hurt face, his anger and his resolve when he packed up his things and left. I put my phone next to Bruno. It is quiet. No texts. No phone calls. Of course not. What am I thinking?

A light breeze is stirring the leaves of the potted bushes on my terrace. I still haven’t moved. Maybe I dozed off for a moment. I can’t remember the last time I slept. Bruno left me temporarily – probably to poop or drink some water – but comes back regularly to check up on me. I give him a pat on his head, and he replies with a soft “meow” and then wanders off again. He comes back regularly, bops his head against my hand that’s hanging off the chair. “Are you still alive?” Maybe he’s also just hungry and wants feeding.

I force myself to move, walking into the kitchen where I fill his bowl with kibbles. He hungrily chomps down on them, and I watch him. It’s so easy to make him happy. I glance at my phone that I put down on the kitchen counter, its surface a black mirror that reflects the ceiling. I haltingly reach for it, unlocking it with my thumb. It lights up and shows me the wallpaper. A picture I took in Paris, a tree full of pale pink blossoms in front of a brasserie. I was there with Rashid, only this spring.

“Don’t expect anyone else to fix you. I’m not going to fix you. The only person who can fix you is you.” It’s Eli’s voice in my head – something he said during one of our first sessions. I didn’t fully understand it at the time. What’s the point of therapy if it doesn’t help? If it doesn’t make you whole again? I can’t make anything right. All I do is break things. I broke us – Rashid and me – and I don’t know how to put us back together. Maybe some things just stay broken.

Why? Why did I do it? Rashid was right. I never gave him a chance, never listened to him. Instead, I was so ready to believe a stranger. Why? Because he confirmed what I always suspected. That I’m not worthy of love. It’s what my father’s fists tried to pound into me: “You’re a worthless piece of shit, boy.” Everyone I ever cared about left. My mom, Remy, and Josie… my sister is still there, but she has her own family now. Mal and the kids. She doesn’t need me. She probably would have been better off without me. Her good-for-nothing baby brother.

Rashid is gone.

“Maybe you’re right… Maybe we’re better off apart.“

“I didn’t want it to end this way.”

Are we better off apart? Or is this my dad winning? Was it actually my dad’s voice on the phone when Sam called me?

I remember the first time Rashid smiled at me. Really smiled. It was the day my nephews were born, and it felt like the sun came out after a rainy day. Our first kiss, that sent me to the ER. Our second kiss in front of the hospital where I felt the pieces of my broken soul shift a fraction closer. The way he stayed after our first fight to make sure I was alright. When he called himself my boyfriend and something warm lit inside of me. When he said he loved me, kneeling between my legs on the steps of my childhood home.

He’s always been kind to me. He deserves better. Better than me. Treated better than the way I treated him. He deserves an apology. He might not want to talk to me or see me again, and honestly I couldn’t blame him. Even if I can’t make things between us right again, I can try to apologise. I can’t just let him go. A horrible thought crosses my mind. What if he already left New Orleans? Got on the first flight back to London? He doesn’t have any reason to stay. I didn’t give him one.

I open the messenger, and his last texts stare at me. A selfie in front of Buckingham Palace making a goofy face. Kissing emojis. Then a gap. No texts for several weeks. There’s one sent a few days ago: “Are you ok? I tried to call, but there was no answer. I’ll try again later, xoxo”. Several missed calls.

There’s another that I haven’t even read yet. It’s from early last evening: “I just landed. I’ll be over in a bit. Hope that’s fine? xoxo” I wish I could just turn back time. His “xoxo” reminds me of the way his embraces made me feel. Safe, home. There are new messages. Why would there be? I don’t know what to do. I start typing, but it feels wrong. I don’t want to do this via text. My finger hovers above the call button, but I just don’t know what to say. In the end, I write, “Where are you?”

One tick appears, then another. They turn blue almost immediately. He read it. Seconds stretch into eternity while I wait for the app to tell me he’s replying. He’s not. Why would he? With a little too much force, I put the phone down on the counter. Luckily it doesn’t break, but while my hand is still on it, I feel it vibrate. I pick it up. There’s a message. It’s from Rashid. “Maidstone, Tulane Av”, it simply says. While I stare at it, undecided what to say next, another message appears: “Room 16”.

I’m almost out of the door when I realise I can’t go the way I am. I quickly shower, put on a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt and my favourite comfy sneakers. I stuff my keys, phone and wallet into my pockets. In an afterthought I rummage around my drawer and find my emergency pack of cigarettes. I haven’t smoked in a year, but I feel like tonight I’m going to need them.

I take the bus to Tulane Avenue. The city rushes past me. People on the bus are talking, and in my head I’m running all kinds of scenarios about how my meeting with Rashid will go. My heart pulses in my throat. Did he even mean for me to come over? There are visions where he slams the door in my face and laughs at my stupidity that I thought he’d still want me. In all honesty, that’s the most likely option. That’s the one I deserve. There are the wild ones, too, where the door to his hotel room opens to reveal Sam, the DJ vampire, lying naked on his bed. The sun is still up. Maybe not then.

I try to think about what I will say to Rashid. How will I apologise? I wish I called someone and asked for their advice. Eli always tells me it’s okay to ask for help. But who could I have called? My sister? Or Rafa? An elderly lady sits next to me on the bus. She smiles at me, takes my hand and pats it.

“Ay, mijo, no te preocupes; todo va a estar bien.”

I must look really miserable for a stranger to notice, but she reminds me of my friend Mari. It’s exactly what she would have said. “Don’t worry; everything’s going to be okay.”

The bus ride is over much too quickly, and I stand in front of the Maidstone. It’s an old motor lodge-style motel which was renovated only a couple of years ago. It looks cosy and comfortable, with that old-time charm and a modern twist. I can see why Rashid picked it. Maybe he stayed here before. Now that I arrived I’m afraid to go in. I light a cigarette and pace up and down the street in front of the hotel. I finish the first cigarette quickly, squat down on the pavement and light another one. Then I realise Rashid knows when I read his message, and he probably knows how long it takes me to get here. No point in delaying the inevitable any longer.

I make my way up the staircase to the top floor, last door on the left, the concierge told me. I find it, the numbers 1 and 6 in a simple font attached to the door. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I feel my throat tighten again. Don’t have a panic attack, not now! Waiting won’t make it better.

I knock.