And rain pours down the windows without a sound as the television flickers blue on my white walls. I can’t hear anything but my heartbeat in my ears, thumping in my temples. Regret and broken promises are calling to me. And I can’t ignore either.

My mind wanders to whispers under a Spanish sky and I find myself holding a photograph of us. Curling slightly at the ends, faded through handling, squeezed into a photo-booth to the sound of hysterical laughter. I stare at it blindly. Your dark eyes locked on mine; hand in my hair, heart in your hand. What is that look we’re sharing? Lust? Want? Need? Not love. It was never love.

Your angular writing is slightly raised under my fingers and I wish I could pick up the phone and tap in your number. Do I even remember the dialling code for Spain? I run my fingers over each number, wishing this nostalgia would allow me to pick up the telephone and listen to your voice. But then, would you really be waiting for my call? After all this time? No. You’re out with the others by now, drinking San Miguel and laughing. Flirting with some other British girl or maybe an American. A leggy blonde named Brandi…

Enough.

I bite my nails and taste blood. I ignore the metallic tang in my mouth. Look down at that photograph and wonder where you are, wonder what you’re doing, who you’re with and if you miss me. I can feel tears struggling to escape from their prison but I refuse to let them out. I can’t cry over you, it would only serve to make me feel worse.

Television switches itself off. I don’t notice. A flash of lightning illuminates the room, I hadn’t realised it was so dark. The photograph has disappeared in the black and I clutch for it, fingers desperately seeking. I wish I could find your soft hair in the dark, wish I could blindly reach out and touch your cheek, still damp from the ocean. I lick my lips. Salt. Had I been swimming too or was I crying?

Over the deathly silence of the house, I hear the knock at the door. I don’t move; I will not be disturbed. Another knock, somehow more forceful. The rain coaxes me from my seat and I wander aimlessly into the hallway. Junk mail still litters the road.

Shadows behind glass.

I open the door cautiously, not wanting to let the misery out. And there. I start to laugh, not sure why or how or where and I know tears are still staining my cheek with crystalline salt. You smile back at me. Questions, questions, questions, questions. But I don’t want any answers. I reach out a shaking hand to touch your cheek, still damp from the rain.

I step out into the maelstrom. Let ice-cold raindrops stab me, I need to know it’s reality and not some cruel dream. And then, lips on lips and skin on skin and your hair is still just as soft as it was. And I want to tell you I missed you but I can’t remember the Spanish. I don’t think it ever mattered. We never needed words.