Mrs Brightley didn't like me because I wasn't right for Jess. Jess wanted to be a veterinarian, and I had no clue what I wanted to do in life, least of all hold down a traditional doctor/lawyer/civil engineer shtick job to support my wife, two point four kids and a dog. I wasn't physically attractive enough. I wasn't a prefect at school. I came from a broken home. Everything about me was wrong, apparently, though she never said it to my face. It hurt Jess a lot, and it hurt me too, but we were stronger than that. God, I miss her so much.

It felt all kinds of wrong as I approached the house. It's one in a row of identical two-storey family homes, the garden increasingly unkempt since neither Mr or Mrs Brightley were willing or able to work on it. If they didn't do something soon, it would merge with the forest behind it and become almost impossible to restore. Mr B's car was gone again. From the street I could see the television flicker, so I assumed Mrs B was in. I made like I was going to walk to the door of the house next door, even though I was alone on the street, changing direction at the last minute to creep along beside the house in the shadows of the overflowing recycling bins stacked along the wall. Jess' bedroom was on the first floor and there was no way I could scale the vertical brick wall.

I stood for a moment underneath her bedroom window, staring up at her closed curtains. There had to be some way to get in. Stacking the bins under the window would make too much noise, and the last thing I wanted to do was attract attention to myself. Talking to Mrs B would likely yield precisely zero results. The back door creaked, so that wasn't an option either. I doubted they had forgotten to fix the broken lock on the bathroom window, and why was I even considering breaking and entering?

My heart nearly stopped when the sound of a car engine rumbled down the street, then lifted as I recognised the green Ford Fiesta creeping reluctantly forwards. I tried to be as casual as possible as I walked around the house, keeping half an eye on the car as it pulled into the drive. It was Mr Brightley. I had never seen him look so tired. His eyes were red so I think he had been crying.

It didn't take much convincing to let me see Jess' bedroom. Mostly he just smiled blankly and replied in a monotone, hollow voice that I could do what I want. Mrs B was thankfully passed out on the sofa, and his sigh of relief was audible.

Climbing the stairs was hard. I remember every creak, every pause that made my thighs burn for a second, the way the rough patch on the banister scraped against my palm. The ghosts of me and Jess scrambling down them like kids, eager for dinner, or stumbling up them like the adults we pretended to be, flitted all around me.

My head began to ache, and that is the last really solid sensation I remember feeling until I left the house. I don't recall most of the bedroom. Hell, I'm not even sure I made it that far.

I have to stop. I'll explain when I can, but now I just. I jsut have to do something and I don't even understandn but Ill do it. I swear jess.