I don’t know what to do, but I’m hugging the ring-pull, and all it means, tightly to my chest. In my heart, I have accepted the totally stupid idea that you are here somewhere, somehow. I imagine holding you, kissing you, never letting you go.

But imagining doesn’t last long. Suddenly, I skip - yes, skip - to the living room, put all the furniture back, and catch myself smiling. My face feels strange for doing it. The sunlight is warm on my face. I wonder how I could make such a wonderful expression seem so alien. In retrospect, moping after you for so long seems rather pathetic and stupid. Like I’d been denied my favourite toy and I was holding my breath until it was given back.

But you have been. Or will be. Once I can figure out how.

I go back to the kitchen, fetch a pad and a pen, and begin making a list.

And it feels … romantic. I never liked romance novels or films. They always seemed too set-up, the answers too snappy, the perfectly timed misunderstandings that turn the story just so. Granted, romantic gestures are a nice way to set a mood for a night in, but that feeling doesn’t, and shouldn’t, last forever. The finding of The One, against-all-odds, always looked like an advert for wine, chocolates, flowers and engagement rings. 

And the Happy Every After never really is, not really.

But for all my dislike for romance, I’m in one. Right now. By some mysterious twist of fate, it is - will - happen.

I’ve just got to find you.

I rack my brain, tap the pen against the pad that I’ve doodled all over. I suppose it would help to know what kind of romance I’m in. It is a comedy or a mystery? Sci-fi? I swear when I think about paranormal - maybe you’ve come back from the dead to be with me. Not sure I like that one so much. Makes me think of zombies, devilish pacts and really bad mascara.

But that wouldn’t explain the other-me, of course. That suggests an alternative, like you’re from a different dimension, where you are somehow still alive and I hate you.

I can’t imagine hating you. Anger? Plenty. Frustration and a little bit of betrayal as well, but not hate. You’re warm, and cuddly, and funny, always have interesting things to say and always put the toilet seat down.

Contact. That’s what I - we - need. Communication. Cause I don’t know if you are looking for me, and it would be a lot easier if you were. Double the chance. 

The pen drops from my hand as I stand up, pushing over the chair, which falls to to the floor behind me. Breathless, I run upstairs to our bedroom, grab the expensive perfume you brought me for my birthday, and start spraying it on the carpet in every room.

You always liked it, said it made me very alluring. You said you’d bought that one because it was rare, special, not just because of the designer bottle and fancy name. Unique and unmistakable.

Ignore that if you can, Mister.