Ours was a dark, torrent affair. Fights had ruled our days, and a very different sort of passion had consumed our nights.

He left ten days ago, and all I dream about is holding him close. The anxiety has grown into a killer vine that has anchored itself around my limbs, my throat and my rational mind.

I've always been on edge, even as a child. When I first met Nathan, he soothed the sharp edges. His touch calmed me, his kiss made me believe in a better world where I could finally breathe freely.

It no longer mattered that my parents cast me out the moment I told them I was gay—he was the only family I needed.

No longer did I mourn the loss of my childhood friends, driven away by the anxiety and social isolation I often buried myself in—Nathan was my best friend, lover and saviour all in one.

My apartment in Greenwich became our haven. We hid from the world together, in a soundproof bubble of all-consuming love.

The bubble burst the first time he struck me.

I forgave him. Of course I did. I'd been acting like a volatile asshole all day, and I understood he'd run out of patience. With great effort, I recreated our little bubble and tried to forget.

The first time he slammed me against a wall in anger, my anxiety returned with a vengeance. When I told my therapist I had trouble sleeping, trouble breathing, he suggested I go back on meds. I carefully skirted his questions about my relationship with Nathan.

My medical-induced calm seemed to spread through our relationship, and the fights faded into a peaceful existence. Even my paintings, always dark and raw, took on a more ethereal quality that attracted interest from new galleries.

Life was good to me once more, and Nathan was the one I had to thank. I fell asleep in his strong embrace, feeling cherished and safe. His pale fingers running through the dark locks of my hair worked like balm on my aching soul.

Then, one night, all hell broke loose when Nathan accused me of breaking his tablet. He shoved the cracked screen under my nose and told me he'd seen me smash it against the wall.

I never did anything of the sort. When I told him, he backhanded me and I tackled him, drawing my nails over his beautiful face, leaving red gashes on his pale cheek. The sight left me breathless with panic. His strong fingers around my throat took the rest of my breath away. Only when I nearly fainted did he let go of me, slamming the hardwood door behind him on his way out.

Nathan never looked at me the same. I caught him staring with something akin to fear in his blue eyes, and I ached. The distrust poisoned our relationship to its roots, and without the forgiving blanket of love, the fights became more violent and less easily forgiven.

He'd throw wild accusations my way, point to dark bruises on his pale skin, and tell me I was to blame. In return, he gave me bruises that shook me to my core.

The medication no longer worked. I needed rest so desperately I slowly upped the dosage until oblivion claimed me in dark, dreamless sleep.

We stopped talking. We stopped touching, unless it was in anger.

It didn't surprise me when I woke up one morning with fresh scratches on my face and hands to find him gone. His side of the dresser was cleared; only a dark-blue tie was left behind, reminding me of his impeccable suited appearance right before he left for work at the bank every morning. More than one night, I fell asleep with the tie crushed between my fingers and tears burning my retinas.

Despite the destruction our relationship had wreaked on my life, his departure was much worse.

I stopped painting. I stopped leaving the apartment.

For the past week, I've woken up on the cold, tiled floor every morning, not knowing where I am or what happened the night before.

This morning, I wake up next to an oil painting I can't remember making. It's a paltry echo of my earlier work, sucked dry of inspiration. The slashes are raw and clumsy, crimson droplets spattered over the canvas like blood.

When Nathan left, he took my muse with him.

Maybe all I need is closure. I need to tell him I'm sorry for the pain I've caused. I need to see the finality in his blue eyes, before I can accept we're really over.

My fingers shake so badly I have trouble finding his best friend's contact in my phone. It takes me an hour before I work up the courage to press the call button.

"How dare you call me?!" Her shriek startles me into dropping my phone on the counter. I grapple with it only to find she's hung up on me.

For the first time, I realise that Nathan may be hurting as much as I do. He was the one to leave, so I never dreamed I still affected him.

Clearly, calling his friends or family won't do me any good.

I should just let go.

I find I can't.

That night, he haunts my dreams, and I wake up gasping for breath with the tie tight between my fingers.

Staring out of the window, I count the seconds until the morning sun lights up the facade of the quaint pub across the street.

Dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt that's too large for my dwindling body, I leave the apartment and shiver in the morning chill. I can't be bothered to go back upstairs for a jacket.

Shoving my hands deep in my pockets, I set a brisk pace towards the tube station to get across London. If I want to 'run into' Nathan for a face-to-face conversation, starting at his parents' place in Hammersmith seems like the most logical option.

I will find him. I have to.

An hour and two crowded tube rides later, I arrive in the bustling street his parents live in. When we first moved in, Nathan took me to meet his parents, and the same sense of overwhelming panic strikes me now. Then, all I wanted was to impress the most important people in Nathan's life. Now, I crave to see Nathan's face—stubble on his pale face if he's staying in, or clean-shaven and ready for work.

I can't imagine he's found a new place yet. He must be here. He must be.

Cappuccino warming my trembling hands, I sit at the window of the coffee shop across the house and watch, wait.

The curtains are drawn. Nothing moves.

As the minutes crawl by, the nerves bloom into full-blown panic, and my ever-present headache turns into a thunderstorm of pain.

What if he's not here? I don't know where his friends live. We used to meet in bars and restaurants in the city, until our relationship soured too much to be together in public. Until we'd become a dark secret, hidden in our apartment.

Finally, the white of the curtains flutters. I see the flash of a pale face before it's gone again, and hope overwhelms me.

Maybe he's there after all.

I wait.

Dark eyes look straight in mine the next time the curtain moves. I wonder if it's his father; I seem to remember dark brown, friendly eyes meeting mine during our slightly awkward dinner.

The face disappears again, and I'm reduced to tapping my foot in drawn-out waiting.

A police car draws up to the curb in front of the house, lights flashing so brightly I have to close my eyes for a moment. Two police officers walk up to the dark green door, and fear strikes me.

What if something happened to Nathan?

Cold coffee spills over the edge of my cardboard cup as I squeeze too hard. I reach for some napkins to clean up the mess, never taking my eyes off the front door.

Another police car arrives, in silence and without flashing lights, thank god. This time, the officers come my way and enter the coffee shop.

I guess everyone needs their morning cup of bittersweet wake-me-up goodness.

When they approach me, I plaster on the friendliest smile I can manage. It's crazy how nervous police makes me, even when I've done nothing wrong.

The eyes of the female officer remind me of Nathan's, striking blue and stern. The man stares at me with a fierce scowl, before he proclaims, "Will Jones, you are under arrest on suspicion of involvement in the disappearance of Nathan Hart."