My partner of eight years, the person I thought I was going to marry, broke up with me a few weeks before quarantine. They didn’t have time to find a new place to live before the world ground to a halt, and as a front-line essential worker they had all their energy tied up in surviving the last five months.

I used to hate it. Being in the same room was agonising, and even polite conversation left me drained and upset. For a while, it got better; we were starting to become friends again. But I keep cycling back and forth – are we friends? Do I resent them? Why does it hurt so much one minute and feel so warm the next?

Our ninth anniversary would have been in March. They’re finally apartment hunting. I don’t know what I’m going to do when they leave for real.

(At least I get to keep our cat.)