The sun was harsh that morning. My eyes squeezed shut as it leaked through the window. I could almost hear it mocking me: “Time to get up. Get up. Get up.” My body had other ideas, though. I pulled my quilt over my head, willingly myself to go to sleep. Most of the previous night had been spent awake, and as a result, I was absolutely exhausted. My quilt was twisted round my legs like some kind of binding, pinning me down, and I couldn’t move.

Cold water splashed onto my face as I stood in the bathroom, droplets landing on my pyjamas. It didn’t work – I still felt like the living dead. ‘Why did I even bother?’, I found myself wondering. There was no way that I would be able to face going to school, that much I knew. No doubt people would have heard, and I wasn’t ready to face that. So I went back to bed.

My father had other ideas, though. He came in to shake me awake, sitting on the edge of my bed. I silently begged him to let me stay at home, to not force me to go to school. He said that he’d give me a lift. Desperation came through as I tried to convince him that it was a really bad idea, but he didn’t cave. I suddenly hated myself for my weakness, and then I began to wonder if he hated me too. But, as it stood, I had to get up; had to carry on while the world was falling apart. I guess I should have known. Resistance is futile, and pleading makes no difference.

Their presence still lingered in every room as I wandered around in autopilot. I was still doing my normal morning routine, yet it had no meaning, no purpose. It was just one more thing that tied me to this world.

My father spent most of the drive to school asking me what was wrong, while I spent most of it staring out of the window, not answering. There was no way I was going to tell him; he wouldn’t understand. More than that, I didn’t want to worry him. There was no point in telling him something that would only make him feel angry, especially since there was a chance that anger would be directed at me.

Rumours spread like wildfire – it’s a fact of life; one that is particularly true for high school, the general need for gossip the oxygen that fans the flames. I had barely walked in the door before someone came up to me, someone I don’t think I’ve spoken to since I moved here. She asked me if I was alright, her eyes taking in my appearance, the fatigue that I knew must have shown with every moment. I don’t even know what I said in reply. All I can remember is the look in her eyes – disdain, like I was over-reacting. I excused myself, pushing past her. There were other people in the corridor, and, feeling suffocated, I kept my head down and tried to walk past them without inviting any more conversation. However, that didn’t stop me feeling the heat of their stares, and worse, the shame brought on by the few people who had sympathy etched across their faces, as if they knew what I was going through. How could they possibly have known?

“No-one’s died,” someone shouted at me. “Stop acting like it.”

But they were wrong. Someone had died…or would you count it as something? I didn’t really know what to think about it any more. All I knew was that I had to get out of there. I was running down the corridor and then someone put their hand on my shoulder. I recognized their voice as a friend of mine, but my body reacted in a completely contrary way. I jumped back from them, pressing myself against the wall. They were confused, that much was obvious. I was about to explain…at least, I think I was, when I saw someone over their shoulder.

Him. The one who had started this whole thing. And the memory came surging back.

He had looked so hurt when I kicked him out of my house on Saturday night, like I was being unreasonable. It hurt watching him leave, but I didn’t think that I’d made the wrong decision at the time. Was I mistaken?

He knew, didn’t he? That way his eyes connected with mine in the corridor; that possessive glint I had become so familiar with over the past few months. Almost as if he was reminding me. I turned away from him, the hairs on my arms sticking up even though it wasn’t cold.

The rest of that day is a blur. It had become common knowledge that my boyfriend and I had broken up. That, I could live with. I kept my mouth shut as people offered words of condolence, afraid of what I would say if I opened it. They could never know the truth - I wouldn’t be able to cope if anyone knew the truth.

Why? That’s the question I was asked most that day, almost as if they expected me to hold all the answers. How could I know what to say to that? How could I know the answers when that was the question I had been asking myself ever since it happened?

It. That little word covers all manner of things, doesn’t it? I lost count of how many people said that they’d been through a particularly bad break-up themselves, and that they knew exactly what I was going through. I highly doubt that. They weren’t there; they don’t know. It was me, and only me.

Everyone says that things will improve soon, that I’ll be back to my old self again, but I know better. Part of me is gone, and the rest of me is immersed in self-loathing at how I could have let it happen.

Did you know that fear is paralysing? That’s the only reason I can think of as to why I didn’t resist further. Sometimes you get to a point where it’s all you can do to just lie there and breathe, and wait for it to be over.

“Don’t tell,” he said. “Don’t tell, or I’ll kill you.”