The next morning I woke up feeling sick, like I'd swallowed ink. I rolled out of bed and tried to open my door, finding it locked. With a groan, I remembered the previous night and slowly unlocked the door. Try not to think about it yet, I coached myself. Repeating this mantra in my head, I padded into the bathroom, where I was confronted with my own washed-out, haggard face. The granite counter was oddly empty without Julian's emporium of potions. I cried the whole way through my shower.

My newly-washed hair dripped on the floorboards as I dithered outside the living room door. I didn't know what to say to him. "Get out of my house, you cunt," didn't seem like a fitting goodbye to somebody who – for better or for worse – I'd been in love with for most of my life.

"Julian?" I knocked softly on the door. He probably had a headache. "You awake?" He didn't answer; no noise came from inside. I sighed and gently pushed the door open, to be greeted with a sight I really hadn't been expecting.

The living room was full of buttery sunshine, and some lilies my mother had sent on my birthday glowed in the morning light. The entire room was neat and tidy: the bookcase in the corner alphabetized, a bowl of fruit on the coffee table.

The Julian Bonfire was still in the middle of the carpet. That damned tartan blanket was folded neatly on the sofa. Julian, his shoes, and his jacket were gone. It occurred to me that Julian had missed something. Maybe he thought we were just having a fight, maybe I hadn't been clear enough when I'd screamed "GET YOUR STUFF OUT OF MY HOUSE" at him.

A hiccup bubbled in my throat, reminding me of my hysterics yesterday. I'd never been proud of how emotional I was, and I gingerly wondered if Julian even cared we were fighting. Judging by his "business as usual" binge drinking the previous night (and by the accompanying cockslut) I thought not.

We'd only once before had a fight of this magnitude, the first time Julian had cheated on me. The fight had resulted in Julian spending three and a half days in exile from the house, before he was delivered to my doorstep by a bemused taxi driver. He (Julian, not the taxi driver) had been in tears and explained that he'd realised I was the most important person in his life and that no amount of affairs was going to change that. What is a person supposed to say to that? I didn't understand it, but I knew if I didn't let Julian have his way, I would lose him.

In short, Julian was allowed boyfriends.

He just wasn't allowed them here, in our bed, and he really wasn't allowed to expect me to wash their boxers.

I shook my head sadly and kicked the Julian Bonfire half-heartedly. Sapped of all my energy, I sat down on the sofa and flicked the TV on. I wanted breakfast, but I couldn't be arsed. I was about to have a nic fit, but reaching for the fags on the coffee table seemed way too much like hard work. The Sunday morning Hollyoaks omnibus was on.

For the next sixteen hours, I lived in near-darkness. The good weather had given way to pissy, grey English thunderstorms and I didn't feel like opening the curtains to look at it. Instead, I listened to the sound of the rain drumming on the roof and ate sandwiches with odd fillings. I skirted around the Julian Bonfire, but I didn't move unless completely necessary.

During the advert break in Deal or No Deal, I went upstairs to the toilet and on my way down I had a sudden urge to have a rest. Gerald the pot plant happily sat halfway up the stairs, his tendrils spilling out of his pot as if he had no idea what his owner had done. Bastard vegetation. I idly flicked my lighter, watching the flame burst and die in the space of milliseconds. It had taken a lot longer than that for me and Julian to burn ourselves out. When I finally got to the bottom of the stairs, Deal or No Deal was over and Gerald had twenty-four burn marks on his leaves.

I started to think about work at about midnight. I taught technical theatre studies at the local grammar school and I maintained that theatre people did not take sick days. I wrote a half-arsed lesson plan and called it a night. My bed smelled of Julian, so I slept in the spare bedroom with the damask cushions from downstairs as pillows.