The rest of half-term drags like a log in a stream. Not having a phone makes me realise just how much time I spend on it, and in the digital void, a pattern forms:

11:00AM – Wake up. Stare at ceiling. Send Eric Facebook message from laptop. Wait for answer from Eric. No message comes.

12:00PM – Give up. Get breakfast and try to avoid Mum, but inevitably bump into Mum on the stairs and receive cold comment about waking up at midday and iced coffee for breakfast again.

12:30PM – Binge-watch a Netflix series I've seen at least twice.

4:30PM – More iced coffee. Try and read teen romance novel, get depressed and read Nietzsche instead.

6:00PM – Finally give in to grumbling stomach and down a litre of apple juice and 3 bowls of Rice Krispies. Coco Pops if feeling adventurous.

7:00PM – Go for a run up and down the hill and pretend not to see Mum watching me from her window to make sure I don't try and see you-know-who.

9:00PM – Listen to music and try to study but end up spacing out wondering if Eric's tried reaching me, too. Re-organise entire room trying not to think about Eric.

12:00PM – Avocado face mask and shower with old school Hilary Duff blaring, then fall down YouTube conspiracy videos rabbit hole. 

04:00AM – Wonder if Mum will hate me forever. Wonder when I'll see Eric again. Stare at ceiling again until asleep.

Okay, maybe that's slightly dramatic. Mum always brings me dinner in the evening (accompanied with the limited verbal exchange: 'You've hardly eaten.' 'Yeah...' 'I made pasta.' 'Thanks, Mum.').

Aug pops in every couple of hours to play Scrabble, or catch up on Celebrity Juice, or babysit me when Mum goes out to the shops (even though she won't admit that's what she's doing).

Once they were both back in London, Babe and Caz even stopped by a few times. Mum didn't let them up to see me, but we'd make it work – they'd come round the back and sneak me Oreo ice cream sandwiches, and let me scroll through their Instagram feeds to keep up to date with the year group gossip.

Yet still, between the runs and Rice Krispies and turning my room upside down every other day, my mind refused to move from one place – one person. Can you blame me?

I miss him.

Today's the first day back at school, and the butterflies in my stomach are flitting about so madly I feel light-headed. But it's a good feeling, I think. I'll finally get to see him again.

There are a thousand other things to consider, of course. He hasn't responded to any of my messages, but given that I'm currently phoneless and the last time we were together, he left with a bloody nose, it's understandable, I guess.

Realistically, it'd be way too risky to spend even a moment together today. And then there's the worst-case scenario: he sees me, but pretends he doesn't, and totally ignores me.

... But even just a smile, or a brush in the hall, or a silent, mimed 'Thursday'. I'd be restored.

As I pass the foyer mirror, I stop and tuck a stray loose curl behind my ear, clipping it in place with one of the two butterfly clips in my hair. I tug on the sleeves of my peach sweater for good measure.

It's the same sweater I wore the night Eric and I saw Romeo and Juliet in Covent Garden last winter. The night he'd asked me to be 'his', and I became the luckiest girl alive. I hope there's some luck left-over in it.

"Bye, Mum," I pop my head into the living room and speak in the low voice of stubborn guilt I've adopted around her in the past week. She's barely said a word to me, and every word I say feels like I'm treading on eggshells.

"See you," she says without looking up from her laptop, although I know that as soon as I leave, she'll watch from the curtains. Still, things have started to sink in – how justified she was to be worried about me; how rubbish it was of me to treat her like a villain – and I feel like shit.

But I've spent the better part of this week feeling like shit. Today, or at least for this morning, I want to turn my mind to happier things. So, I think of the beaming spring sun, hugging my girls, and finally seeing my Eric.

⏤⏤

For once, Cara isn't the only one guilty of melodrama. When I spot Caz and Babe in the horde, I charge at full speed and let out a shrill shriek that'd put dog whistles to shame.

"Oh my God, your hair!"

"Your hair!"

"OMG, your skin!"

"Shut up, your skin!"

It's a teenage thing, I'm sure – the entire corridor's packed full of hugging teens, letting out 1,001 ear-splitting 'OMG, I missed you so much!' screams.

Once we've done the run down (Babe got her hair crimped; Caz had an enzyme facial), we link arms, and our attention turns to the crowd – the 'who's who' of the half-term rumour mill.

Caz gasps dramatically before she glances behind herself furtively with the 'I've got gossip' look in her eyes. "Did you guys hear about Serena and Eddy?"

Babe's cool, but not to cool for the 411. She shakes her head concernedly, leaning in for the tea. "No, what happened? Are they back together?"

"Apparently, she went to Eddy's brother's bar mitzvah – uninvited, obvs-" The voice that interrupts her is a new one – Dylan Seal's, who somehow managed to sidle his way into our triangle to dish the dirt.

"She begged for him back in front of the entire crowd of Year 8s. Eddy didn't flinch, and she got asked to leave. Dead embarrassing."

"Oh, shit."

"Um, excuse you," Cara blinks, a manicured hand shooing Dylan away, "we're having an A-B-C conversation."

Dylan puffs his chest out and wiggles his brows with a flash of his renowned indecent grin that makes his words ten times more salacious,

"Aw, come on, ladies – no space for D?"

"Ew!"

"You're rank, Seal."

I chuckle at Dylan's antics – he's harmless enough, and he's got the response that he's after – but my eyes rise above him, the girls, the crowd, and scour.

My antennae are up for the subtle scent of cigarettes and sandalwood, and I scan the crowd for his head of golden hair, but I don't spot him.

Yet, I tell myself. I don't spot him yet.

It's a busy hallway, and he might already be inside. Or maybe he's just leaving his office – he never was one to be on time for these things. I breathe out and tune back in.

"How'd you even know that?" I ask Dylan.

Babe snorts,

"Yeah, I swear you weren't invited either because you tried to get with Serena when they were together?"

"Co-nnec-tions, ladies," Dylan says, evidently proud of himself, "when you know the right people, you hear the right information. Speaking of which... Cara, I heard you were cuddled up in the Seychelles with Dion Leclerc?"

The 'it girl' of our school, and student President of his, Caz and Dion are an incontestable match made in upper middle-class nouveau riche heaven. Both come from affluent Francophone families, both are the life and soul of every party, and both are convinced they'll be millionaires before their 21st. 22nd at worst.

Caz rolls her eyes at Dylan, making her chagrin known,

"For your information, I was invited by his family, to celebrate his grandmother's birthday. I swear to God, war could break out in Australia and this guy would find out about it before the BBC. Where did you even hear about it?"

"I've got my sources."

"Named?"

"I'll tell you for a kiss."

"Piss off."

When the crowd starts moving, filing into the assembly hall, the flitting and fluttering starts all over again.

Here we go.

I drag the girls to the top of the bleachers, the highest point of the hall, for optimum vision. Much to Cara's vexation, Dylan tags along, too.

The actual reason we're here is some big talk for all the Year 13s. 'You only do these exams once and they'll change your life forever' and all that jazz. It's the final few months before final exams start, and they have to set us free for study leave soon enough, so the teachers make these last-ditch attempts to motivate us to get the grades that'll keep the school at the top of the academic leader boards. Currently, the suits are lining up at the front of the hall to give it yet another go.

Once we're seated, innumerable Year 13s pour into the large room, with new hairdos to flaunt and new watches to flash, grinning from ear to ear as they survey the hall for a seat by their mates.

Babe, Caz and Dylan run their commentary, but I'm only listening with one ear, my eyes glued to the door, waiting, watching. Where is he?

Standing at least head and shoulders above most of the horde, Scott strides through, running a hand through his dark brown cropped cut as he searches the bleachers like everyone else. When he spots me, he stops for a moment, his hand freezing atop his head. We've texted here and there since the Cotswolds – with the exception of this last week, of course – and everything's been friendly, but I'm not sure where exactly on the friendship scale we stand. Then, his expression softens, and his full lips stretch into a warm, bona fide smile. He raises his hand high to wave to me, and mouths 'hey'.

'Hey', I smile back, with a smaller wave. For a second I wonder if he'll come up and sit with us – I'm not sure if I'd be ready to explain that to the girls – but his mates call him over with shouts of 'oi, oi, Kellie boy!' from the other side of the hall, and he nods in my direction again, before his swagger returns as he heads over and joins the boisterous banter.

"What's that about?" Babe asks, watching, unimpressed, as Scott joins the pack, welcomed with nuggies and nudges.

"What?"

"Kellerman just waved at you, no?"

"They're friends now, remember?" Cara says smugly, and I narrow my eyes at her because I know what she's implying.

I look down to dust off my skirt although there's nothing on it,

"It's not a big thing, we just talk sometimes," I shrug, "text and stuff."

Their eyes persist, Babe's questioning and slightly judgy, and Cara's suggestive and probing.

"Whatever," I shrug again, returning my eyes to the door. The incoming crowd is slowing, with a few latecomers trickling in every few minutes. Soon enough, the assembly is starting.

"Right! Right, Year 13!" Headmaster Madison clicks and claps to get our attention, grimacing whilst the noise dies down slowly. "Thank you. Right, I'm sure you're all excited to be back after some time away – I'm sure you've missed us as much as we've missed you."

Half the crowd lets out a jumble of a fake laughs and unenthusiastic agreement, that tickles the other half of the crowd to real laughter. When everyone settles down, Madison huffs an irritated breath and continues,

"So, as you know, your A-Levels are just under 3 months away. And we want to be able to support you as best as we can..."

I quickly tune out when the hall door is shut, and a heavy thud echoes throughout the room. I glance over the teachers' row, and pass my eyes over it again, then again, but there's no sight of him. He didn't come.

"Did you lot hear that Mag-lin's gone?" Dylan murmurs while keeping his eyes on Madison, so as to not get caught chatting.

Babe, Caz and I exchange glances, unsure of whether we should say anything. I want to speak, but it's like I can't – I'm frozen in fear of the worst-case scenario. Caz notices, and asks the question I can't manage.

"What d'you mean 'gone'?"

"Dunno," he shrugs, "I heard he's taking his annual leave or something. Elsa Richards is telling people he got fired for flipping off Madison, but I think that one's bullshit. Either way, no one's seen him in yet, and he didn't check in for assembly."

Dylan sits back smugly, proud of his knowledge, and totally unaware of the bomb he's dropped, and I fix my eyes forward as I feel my heart sink. Caz and Babe are staring – I can feel it – and Caz even puts a tentative hand on my back, asking silently, are you alright?

"Weird, right? Is that one worth a kiss then?" Dylan smirks.

"Piss off, Seal," Babe hisses, batting him away from our huddle with a harsh flick.

"Ange," she whispers, "you alright?" Caz is tilted in, too, waiting for my answer.

This doesn't exactly feel like the time or place to burst into tears.

"Guys, I'm fine. I spoke to him earlier," I lie, forcing a clueless smile, "he already told me about it. It's all good."

I can't tell if they believe me or not, but they turn their attention to Mr. Madison as well, and that's good enough, because it means they don't see the water well up in my eyes.

Where the hell is he?