My eyes are dead. I know that because I am looking at them right now, in a mirror somewhere in a dirty old pub bathroom. The smell is disgusting. Still, I am staring at my eyes, frozen in place.

My brain is empty, unthinking. It's a relief, to be honest. But it is short-lived. I know she is waiting for me out there, sitting at an old wooden table on a rickety, creaky chair.

I sigh, my head sinking. The sink used to be white. Now it looks grey. There are reddish and brown stains all over it. I shudder.

Jesus, I really don't want to know what caused these stains. The harder I try not to come up with any explanations, the more vivid the theories my brain produces unwittingly.

I shake my head. Very carefully, I press on the soap dispenser to get to some soap. At least, I hope it's actually soap that comes out of there. Well, it is kind of creamy and doesn't smell like shit. I rub it all over my hands, use my elbow to turn on the tap and watch the water wash off the dirt.

What the hell am I doing here? What the hell am I doing with HER? She's out there, patiently waiting for me, her eyes sparkling in the brightest colours, her hands moving incessantly when she is talking. So much passion. So lively.

She is great. The best thing that has ever happened to me. Everyone says so. And they are right.

'A great lady. She's good for you, son,' my father said.

'I love her. Her love and her passion are contagious. You look so much happier,' my mother said.

'Don't fuck this one up, mate,' my best buddy opined.

'Please, bro, let this be the one. The one to save you,' my little sister whispered, tears in her eyes.

God, I hate myself. Because I AM fucking this one up. Like I have fucked everything else up in my stupid little life.

I hate to see my friends' concern, my sister's fear for me and my parents' anguish, but I don't know what to do about it.

She takes me as I am. She never judges. Never seems to be disappointed. No matter what.

But what kind of life am I giving her? A life that centres around me and my fucked-up headspace.

I lift my head again, stare at my eyes once more. Still dull and dead.

I try a smile, willing my eyes to smile along. No joy.

Frustrated, I lob the paper towel I used to dry my hands into the bin and pivot towards the door. Force myself to walk through it towards her. She smiles when she sees me approach the table.

"You okay?" Her warm voice washes over my torn-up soul. I nod.

'Pull yourself together, man!' I admonish myself.

"I'm okay," I answer, when the waiter puts my dinner on the table in front of me. It smells delicious. Her eyes sparkle. She takes a sip of her red wine.

"You can tell me when you are feeling ... off." She puts her hand on mine.

Inwardly, I sigh. This is exactly what I mean. She shouldn't have to deal with this crap. She should be out, having fun with a man who looks after her, a man who gives her the world, a man who at the very least will always be here. Here here, I mean. And I just don't know if I can even guarantee that. Fuck!!! Mentally, I punch the wall and kick over the table. Actually, I squeeze her hand. Look just past her eyes.

"I know, babe. But there's no need to worry. I'm okay, I promise."