She locked the door behind her and stepped into the box of a lift for the last time. Her flat was on the top floor, the only flat to bother with the lift, it was like an extension of what had been home for the last year. She slid the keys off her keyring.

The girl turned the keys over in her hand and waited for the door to ping open, she looked up and she saw him. Awkwardly they shuffled past each other, swapping places as he went back to the life she was leaving. ‘Good luck’ she said. The door closed.

They kept in touch intermittently, him jealous of her freedom, her wishing she was still living the life that she left him in.

Three years later they saw each other. The first thing they did was hug. They sat up all night talking, eating, drinking and talking some more. By 1am they were holding hands.

For the next few months they spent every weekend together, travelling between counties to see each other. The boy moved into a flat and the girl went to visit. She arrived at the train station, freezing cold but excited. He wasn’t there. She would never let him forget that.

In spite of his late arrival, she never left that flat again until the day they moved together.

One year later, on Christmas day, the boy proposed.