I practically had to push Adrian out of the door after our lazy breakfast in bed.
His company brings me so many incredible emotions, but we've already spent over three days continuously together and he has work to catch up on before going to Paris tomorrow.
I mean, the trip's crazy enough on it's own without spending an uninterrupted week together as our third date.
I'm still waiting for someone to jump out and scream it's all a practical joke.
With each article of clothing, I'm gradually permitting the nervous energy to bubble into excitement as I pack.
The weather's meant to be dry in the high teens, so I've packed a few outfits to go with jeans for the daytime. For the evenings I've thrown in an overly generous selection of dresses, as I'm sure it'll be overly unpredictable between Ade and Heidi's whims.
The rest of the afternoon is dispersed amongst the backlog of chores that have built up over the past few days.
'Got to love adulting!' I sigh, collapsing onto the sofa.
I drag my laptop over and yank open the top. I've got some serious literature review work to catch up on.
After trudging through articles for what seemed like years, an unexpected knock at the door gives me a welcomed break.
I wrench the door open to find the automatic light still on, but no one in the corridor.
Upon a second, more thorough, inspection I find nothing but a bouquet on my doormat.
'How odd…"
Everyone close to me knows not to give me flowers because I'm completely hopeless at keeping them alive.
Unless they're from Ade.
But he only just left? Why would he send me flowers?
I carry the arrangement inside and admire them on the table.
As my track record concurs, I hold no knowledge of flower species. But, they look pretty.
One stem has numerous purple flowers branching off in the shape of an upside down ice cream cone, causing my mind to drift towards the freezer.
I lean against the wooden table.
Upon closer inspection I realise the yellow button flowers are comprised of little dots arranged in an intricate mandala pattern.
The other two types of flowers appear to be a reflection of each other in a shattered mirror.
They're both trumpet shapes, but one is white with a frillier pink rim and the other is white with pink veins pumped outwards from the centre.
Gorgeous, they really brighten up the flat.
Wondering where they came from, I hunt for a note.
Rummaging through the stalks, I find a white envelope resting on a delicate black rose.
Inside is printed text on a plain card.
["Not all people are worth saving."]
'Well that clears everything up.' I role my eyes at the obscure note.
This has to be a prank.
My patients would have a mission to obtain my surname let alone my address.
They didn't even ring the doorbell, so they must know me well enough to memorise the code.
I don't have a large quantity of friends, so the number of individuals that know my security code is scarce.
Maybe Jake's embarrassed about throwing up in my bathroom at the last group games night and this is his bizarre way of apologising?
Oh well, they're just flowers. If it's anything important, someone will follow up with a text.
I push them to the centre of the table and return to my laptop.
The next time I rise it's for bed after losing the battle against my droopy eyelids.
I haul myself into the shower out of pure necessity.
If I wash my hair in the morning it won't air dry before I leave and I don't own a hair dryer to cheat the process.
Using a microfibre towel, I squeeze the excess water from my hair before securing it in a microfibre towel wrap.
I wriggle into bed, cocooning myself in a soft blanket to simulate a fraction of the comfort that Ade's warm embrace provided.
Exhaustion swiftly carries me away.
I lean against the slanted red plastic bench as the rain pounds against the roof of the bus shelter.
My headphones rest soundlessly in my ears as I stare at the ground.
Droplets skate across growing puddles as they ripple under the sharp impact.
Occasionally, a pair of trainers awkwardly avoid the puddle, throwing themselves off balance.
A pair of black school shoes float over the surface, supported by a pair of dirty trainers on either side.
I watch my breath dance in the moist air. The chilling intake rattles my lungs.
The shallow body of water amasses to occupy the majority of the path.
A pair of trainers confidently navigates the uneven slabs.
The strides cause tidal waves to tear through the ripples.
The dark trainers meet in the centre, stilling with the water.
Refracted blue soles swirl, submerged in the mirky pool.
My heart darts away from me, taking my oxygen supply with it.
The sounds of rush hour fade away to silence. Even the pounding in my ears is muted.
A single ping rings out as a deep red droplet breaks the surface tension.
My dilated pupils retrace the droplet's fall.
Streams of blood flow down a steady hand, leading to the penetration site. A thorn is protruding from their thumb.
The bloodied fingers encircle a single black rose.
I follow the stem upwards, tracing each imperfection and thorn.
Translucent droplets roll off of the delicate petals, magnifying its distinct colour.
My airway constricts as the hand offers me the rose.
The brittle cold air occludes my throat.
I wheeze as I will my trembling limbs to move.
The hand hangs at full extension, just a few centimetres away from my knotting stomach.
One by one, their fingers pull away until the rose is tumbling through the air.
As it lands on my lap, a thunderous boom stops my heart.
A crack of lightning engulfs the figure, electrifying the puddle.
Incinerating heat cauterises every inch of my nerves in turn until the sensation amplifies at my tailbone. Pain lacerates my spinal chord, throwing my head back.
The all-consuming torture jolts my paralysed body upright.