I slowly prise open my heavy eyelids, and I'm immediately struck by two things.
The first is my head, it feels all muggy, as if it's swollen and throbbing like an inflated balloon that might pop at any minute.
The second is my mouth, it's so dry I have to peel my lips apart and if I didn't know any better I'd think something crawled inside my mouth and died. There's this disgusting, unidentifiable taste that makes me want to vomit.

Oh, wait.

Oh no...that's right. I was being sick.
I remember now, I was hurling the contents of my stomach up in a bathroom. Who's bathroom it was exactly, I can't rightly recall but it wasn't the bathroom at home, or at the flat.
The rising panic tightens its grip on me as I try and adjust my eyes to the bright light.
Where am I?
The last thing I remember, was....oh God!

Slowly it's all coming back to me in hazy fits and starts.

Brett.
He had hold of me.
I remember tucking my face into his chest, and feeling so woozy, and sickly and sleepy.
Then....it's all a complete, scary blank, and I'm afraid.
Afraid of the blankness. I've no idea what has happened and I'm overcome with the urge to cry but I hold it in, somehow managing to keep a handle on my emotions as best I can.
I can't afford to go losing my shit right now, I need to try and think clearly. I need to clear my head, to piece things together, but my mind is fogged up with pain and distorted thoughts.

I stare up at the ceiling for a while, at the strip lighting and the way it reflects off the white walls.
The room is so bright, making me want to close my eyes again and drift back into the deep, dreamless sleep I was in. I feel like I have slept for years, but I'm still tired. It's all too tempting to succumb to the drowsiness, which would be only too easy, as I am laying down in a bed it seems. A bed which has cot-sides.
But no.
I need to figure out what the hell is going on here.

The strong smell of anti-bacterial cleaner fills my nose. I hear the beep...beep....beeping of a machine and slowly turn my head towards the source of the noise. The muscles in my neck are stiff and then I see Jane of all people, sitting slightly slumped in a chair by my bedside, sleeping it appears.

I open my mouth in an attempt to speak, to gain her attention, but nothing comes out but a rasp, and then just as I'm about to try again suddenly I'm aware of the sound of a door being pulled open on my left, and the noise of trolleys wheeling by, telephones ringing and various voices filter into the room from the corridor outside.
I turn my head, following the sound, and then all at once he's there.

Brett.

My Brett.

I don't know where the 'my' has sprung from, but that's the first thing that comes into my head as his tall frame lurches towards me.

"Sammy!" He exclaims, as he strides over. "Christ! You had me so bloody worried."

The next thing I know, he's above me. Leaning down, his face hovering above mine.
He looks worn out and alarmingly dishevelled. He's got the slight dusting of dark stubble on his chin and around his mouth, which indicates he hasn't shaved, and his hair is rumpled and not as glossy as it usually is. I catch the distinct hint of cigarette smoke about him, which is more noticeable in this environment due to all the disinfectant, but it's still quite out of character for Brett. Usually he smells all fresh, clean and delicious.

I couldn't really care less though, because all that matters is him being here.
He's here and now I'm seriously struggling to hold back the tears.

"Oh...it's you." I croak, very inarticulately. It's not what I mean to say, but I think he gets the gist, as I reach up and cup the side of his lovely face in my trembling hand.
It's only by doing this that my attention is now drawn to the fact that I have a needle inserted in the vein at the back of my hand. How did I not notice this blindingly obvious irritant? It's held precariously in place by two meagre strips of white tape, and a quick glance to my right confirms that the tube is connected to an intravenous drip.

Oh how I loath needles of this kind. Not that I'm overly fond of any needle per say, I mean come on.....what sadist would be? But being a type1 diabetic and having to inject myself daily means I've had to get used to them. I have no choice other than to take my insulin shots in the thigh, stomach or upper arm, as part of my routine I'm accustomed to it now unfortunately, but these needles they stick into your veins are a different kettle of fish. They're irritating at best, and if you catch them on anything, they hurt like a bastard.

It dawns on me then that my pesky medical condition must be the cause of all this. It has to be the reason I'm here, there's no other explanation.

"What, what happened Brett? Why am I here? Actually.....where is here? What hospital is this? How did I end up in hospital? I was just sick that's all. I don't get it. Did I black out or something? I don't remember. I can't remember anything. I know you helped me out of the bathroom, but it's all just a blank after that. Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"Hey hey, slow down." Brett commands in a firm but soothing tone. It has an instant calming effect which is enough to stop me from rambling and hyperventilating.
"There you go again, apologising when there's absolutely no need. Daft arse!"
He says this kindly with laughter in his voice, and his lopsided smile is one of pure relief. His aim is to make me smile too, and it works.
He gently takes my needle-free hand in his, and continues.
"You did sort of pass out, so I called an ambulance. You're in the Manchester Royal infirmary, you've been seriously ill but you're gonna be fine. Okay? Don't panic. The doctors will be able to explain it better than I can, but everything's gonna be alright now."

He gives my hand a reassuring little squeeze, and I feel my heart swell.
"I know I'll be alright as long as I have you." I hear myself saying, and then immediately wish I hadn't because I feel him tense up. And unless I'm mistaken, he seems hesitant to look me in the eye now.

Oh Jesus. What have I said? What have I done?

Just then Jane wakes up, so I'm not able to press him. She springs into action, and I'm as touched by her fussing over me as I am over Brett's tenderness.
She rushes out to inform one of the nurses that I'm awake, and for want of something better to say I find myself asking Brett how long I've been asleep for.

"Well it's Tuesday today." he informs me, quickly glancing down at his watch as if he's also lost track of time.
Perhaps he really is a time Lord and whisked me off to some distant alien planet in the TARDIS, then had to erase the adventure from my memory.

"Tuesday!" I cry aghast. "It can't possibly be Tuesday! How could I have been out of it since Saturday night? Shit! Brett, are you sure?"

I'm hoping he's got it wrong somehow. Not that it's likely. This alarming news only adds validity to my Doctor Who theory.

"Quite sure." He says, and now he's looking all serious and sad. "I'm sure because I've been here with you since Saturday..."
He pauses, and turns his head toward the window. "And I'm also sure because I was meant to be back in London yesterday. There's the album to promote, you see. Not to mention the tour."

Ah.
There it is.
This is why he's suddenly become all distant, and I can't stand it. I feel sicker than ever, and this time it takes gigantic effort on my part to not start blubbering unattractively like a baby.

"When...when will you have to leave?" I manage to choke out.

Brett heaves an enormous sigh, and rubs at his temples with the tips of his long, elegant fingers.
It's hardly surprising that he can play the piano, I think absently, as I look at them. They're undeniably pianist fingers.

"I'll have to head back later tonight." I hear him saying, though I'm focusing most intently on trying to quell the pang of unbearable disappointment. "Our manager wanted me back sooner, but he'll have to get over it. Sammy I'm so sorry, truly I am. If I could put it off for another couple of days I would. Believe me."

"Don't be silly, it's....it's fine."

"There's just so much bloody stuff to sort out, events to go to, packing to be done and-"

"I said it's fine!" I snap, and he instantly quietens.

Brett is no fool. He knows that it isn't fine, in fact it couldn't be less- fine and he doesn't look anywhere near as thrilled or excited as he should be, given that he's about to embark on a life-altering adventure. His expression bears more resemblance to a man that has been sentenced to deportation, rather than a man who's dreams of rock stardom are finally coming to fruition.
Which is when I realise how very selfish and immature I'm being. I knew this was on the cards, and now I've no choice other than to be grown up about it.
No point in pouting like a spoiled child.

Besides, I love him. Which means I want him to be happy, not feeling guilty about having to go away. If our fledging romance has any chance of standing the test of time, I'll have to endure the separation. It all comes with the territory. I need to be supportive.

"I'm sorry Brett....I'm being a bitch."

"No you're not, don't say that." He argues, gallantly.

Barely able to suppress the tremor in my voice, I continue feebly. "No I am, I shouldn't resent you for going away. This is an amazing time for you, I'm sorry for being a stroppy cow. I'm just going to miss you so much."

So very very much.

He leans in closer and rubs the tip of my nose with his, a curiously unexpected and sweet gesture, which makes me want to hold onto him forever and never let go.

"You are not being a stroppy cow, far from it." He smiles at me sadly. "I wish I didn't have to go. I hate leaving you like this. The timing is bollocks....but I will write when I can, and ring you."

"Every day?" I venture, hopefully.

"Twice a day." He adds, and there's a sincerity in his eyes that is deeply moving.

But like the needy brat I am, I push for further reassurance.
"You promise?"

"Scouts honour." He gives a mock salute with his hand, which makes me laugh, even though I don't much feel like laughing.

"You always say that. You're no scout, Wolfie."

"I'm not particularly honourable either but I always want to keep my promises to you."

I give a watery smile, trying to think practically. It's proving no easy task, and I'm well aware I might sound neurotic but I just want to cover all bases. "Before you go make sure you leave your telephone number then I can reach you from here, they'll have a pay phone I can use won't they? And I'll give you my home number, just in case I go back to my mum's for a few days when I get out of here."

"It's fine, your mum has already sorted all of that. Just in case I had to leave whilst you were still out of it."

"What?!"

He makes a slightly pained face. "Oh yeah, sorry I should've mentioned it sooner but it slipped my mind...your mum came back yesterday. She's just popped home for a shower and change of clothes. She should be back shortly."

"So you've met my mother?" I trill, somewhat alarmed. "And....and was she okay with you?"

He gives a small, somewhat nervous little laugh which betrays more than just a fraction of anxiety. "Um...yeah, why wouldn't she be?"

"I know my mother." I stare down at my white-knuckled hands, which have been inadvertently clenching the bedsheets.
"She can be a bit, well, after everything that happened with Mark...I think she would've preferred if I'd stayed single a bit longer." I admit.

Brett nods his head understandingly. "That's only to be expected. She's your mum and has your best interests at heart. I'm sure meeting me came as a bit of a shock but she's been more concerned about your health to be honest, which is understandable."

I'm still trying to get my head around all of this when Jane coughs pointedly, alerting us to the arrival of a doctor.

He introduces himself and asks me how I'm feeling, before launching into an in-depth explanation regarding my hospitalisation.
'Diabetic Ketoacidosis' or DKA for short, is brought on by not taking insulin correctly, and the lack of insulin results in raised acid levels in the blood. The body then switches to burning fatty acids which produces acidic 'ketones' (whatever they are) causing weight loss - which is what I had been aiming for - but other unsavourily symptoms such as vomiting, weakness, confusion, dehydration and occasionally loss of consciousness, amongst other nasties, are sure to follow.
"If left untreated...", He informs me gravely, "...It can result in coma and possibly even death."

His proclamation hits me like a wrecking ball, and I feel the full-on extent of humiliation and shame for being such an idiot.
I put myself in harms way, and was willing to risk my own life in order to lose a bit of weight.

A lone tear escapes from the corner of my left eye, and the right one quickly follows suit, until silent salty teardrops are retracing the path of their predecessors.

He goes on to say that I'll have to remain here for a few more days under observation, until my sugar levels have stabilised, but all in all, I'm on the road to recovery.
He leaves, and Brett carefully begins wiping my tears away with the palms of his large hands.
"Aw, please don't cry Sammy. There's nothing to worry about now, you're safe."

"Thanks to you!" I manage, even though it's hard to squeeze the words out passed the lump in my throat. Brett's quick-thinking saved me, and there are no words befitting enough.
My tears aren't just shed from relief, it's also the impending loss. I love this man so much, I'm going to feel completely lost without him.

Not that I have time to dwell on those thoughts or feelings for long though, as a nurse arrives and begins trying to talk me into eating something, which in my churned-up state, is the very last thing on my mind.
But I have to make the effort to undo some of the damage that has been done. It's common knowledge now that I've developed an unhealthy relationship with food, firstly by stuffing my face with chocolate when I'd arrived in London, and then by barely eating at all, and missing insulin doses.

My dad arrives back from the hospital cafeteria just in time to join in with the lecture about me taking better care of myself, and all eyes in the small room are on me as I study the dodgy sounding offerings on the hospital menu at length.
I highly doubt I'll be able to stomach any of it, but the sooner I start eating, the sooner I can get off the intravenous fluids, and the sooner I can get out of this place.

In the end, Brett once again saves the day by offering to bring me some food in, and he doesn't object to my asking for a McDonalds hamburger, in spite of his vegetarianism.

Whilst he's gone, Jane helps me along to the facilities so I can shower and freshen up - though I think I might just die from embarrassment when Brett returns and finds me in my tatty old Miffy the Rabbit dressing gown, which Jane conveniently thought to pack when they made the journey up.
But this is the least of my problems, especially as now we're alone, Jane ceases the opportunity to fill me in on what I've missed in my absence.

To say ignorance is bliss, is a bit of an understatement, and I listen with increasing trepidation as she tells me of how my dad had initially blamed Brett for my health taking a nose-dive. Which is of course, absolutely absurd.
Brett wasn't to know that I'd been neglecting myself so badly, but even when Jane reproached my foolish father for his unfair assumptions, he'd still been angry at Brett for allowing me to drink.
And worse still, my dear mother in all her infinite wisdom, had apparently bent my dad's ear about letting me get 'mixed up' with the 'wrong sort'
In other words she seemed to believe that my being involved with Brett had led to my eating disorder, and that the 'London crowd' I'd fallen in with, were obviously a bad lot, and that it was only by a pure stroke of luck that I wasn't addicted to drugs yet or doing the rounds on the pub circuit as a groupie.

Thankfully, my dad vehemently shot-down her preposterous and unfounded concerns, but...

"Well, that Damian called up the flat on Saturday night asking to speak to you, and your father told him you'd gone away for the weekend with your boyfriend." Jane says in a harsh whisper, as she helps tussle my be-needled hand into the sleeve of my clean pyjama top.

My guts twist into anxious knots.
Oh dear. I hadn't 'officially' ended it with Damon, and now I feel like a complete cow.
"Oh no! What did Damon say?"

"He got a bit shirty actually, saying he was your boyfriend! As you can imagine, your father was none too impressed. He naturally presumed Brett was your boyfriend right from the beginning."

"Oh hell no!"

This day has gone from bad to worse, to absolutely bloody catastrophic, and I feel myself inwardly crumple as Jane holds me dutifully.

I never wanted to hurt Damon, I certainly didn't want him finding out that me and Brett were actually a 'thing' like this.
Then there's my mum blaming my dad for letting me socialise with what she's wrongly deemed to be a shady crowd, she and my dad both blaming Brett for supposedly leading me astray and not taking better care of me.
When in actual fact, I'm the one to blame, no one else.

"If it's any consolation the pair of them have come to their senses now. Emotions were running high Sam, you'll always be their little girl. It's only too easy to point fingers when you're upset and worried, you must understand."
I take the arm she offers, and we slowly head back along the corridor to my room.
"Brett is a real treasure, anyone with half a wit of sense can see how much he cares for you. Did you see the flowers he brought in? My goodness! Peonies...." She sighs wistfully. "The Chinese believe they represent romance, good luck, and.....happy marriage."

"But Brett isn't Chinese." I point out facetiously, before my wild imagination starts running away with itself and I find myself picturing Brett in a dashing suit with coat-tails, complete with carnation in his top buttonhole, standing at the altar with a radiant smile.

Well, a girl is allowed to daydream.

I hadn't actually noticed the flowers, but when I get back to the room they're the first thing I look for.

"I um, I didn't know which kind of flowers you liked so...I got you those." He tells me upon his return, as I thank him. I don't think I've ever seen, or perhaps noticed peonies before and they have the most beautiful lush, rounded, soft pink blooms.
"They are considered a bit old fashioned I'm afraid, but....well, I thought you might think roses were too much of a cliché, and I didn't know what else to get so I got peonies instead. My mum used to grow them."

"Oh Brett, they're absolutely gorgeous! Thank you so much. That's really lovely of you."

He sits on the edge of my bed, chatting away with Jane and my dad as I eat my hamburger. It takes me quite a long time, and I almost choke a couple of times from laughter whilst trying to eat.
Of course Brett is trying to cheer me up. Trying to take my mind off things, and keep me distracted. Which I am more than happy to be.
I have absolutely no idea what the future holds for us, and facing up to the reality of him going away is beyond scary. I am completely, unapologetically freaked out by what's gone on today, and I just want to hibernate until next Spring or something, in the hope it will all be over when I wake up.

A little while later, my mum arrives, and I find myself getting tearful all over again.
She holds me tightly, weeping with me, whilst reproaching me for my stupidity.

"You stupid, stupid girl..." She bawls, "Don't you ever do anything like that again, do you hear me? Nothing and no one is worth putting yourself at risk for."
She emphasises the word 'no one' and shoots a pointed look across the room at Brett, and it's a look that suggests she could think of quite a few ways she could kill him, and make it look like an accident.

Thankfully, he doesn't notice, as he's fiddling about with what suspiciously looks like a gift bag, but he doesn't give it to me or mention anything, so I'm forced to return my attention back to my mother.
"I won't ever do anything like this again mum, I promise. It's nobody's fault, I was being an idiot. But I realise that now. So please, don't keep on at me." I beg. I don't have the energy for this right now. I feel like I've been emotionally beaten to a pulp.

She relents, and I breath a huge sigh of relief. She's sparing me the lecture.....for now. I'm not naive enough to think that I'm off the hook. Far from it. But for now, she's choosing to let the matter rest.
Perhaps the same can be said for her opinion of Brett, as the two begin to converse and her frostiness thaws a little. Which is enough to make me cautiously optimistic.

When the dreaded time of Brett's departure rolls around, I'm proud of myself for not completely going to pieces. I'm proud that I don't burst into tears or ugly-cry into his shirt.

I would've liked some privacy, and Jane does manage to wrangle my father away under the pretence of getting a coffee, but this tactic does not wash with my mother. She makes it blatantly clear that she isn't going anywhere, and insists on hovering in the corner awkwardly, as Brett and I say our goodbyes.
He threads his hand through my hair, and holds the back of my head gently as he kisses me tenderly and deeply. Though he's mindful of being respectful, not wanting to overdo it in front of my mother.

He whispers "I love you." into my ear, and I tell him I love him too, not caring one bit about my mum being present.
So what if she disapproves? I've been on an emotional roller-coaster today, and I won't let Brett walk out of here without telling him just how much I care for him.

I give him one final big kiss on the lips, and then he leaves.....

And then I fall apart.

I feel like I'm crumpling in on myself, and I wail and slobber all over my mums' shoulder.
Thankfully, she doesn't seem to mind.

***********************

Manchester - 1995

That was the last I ever saw of Brett Lewis Anderson, aka 'Wolfie' - well in the flesh at least.
It would have been easier I'm sure, if it had been the last I'd seen of him, but his face being plastered all over every music magazine from 1993 onwards, has made that an impossibility.
Not seeing his face again would've made moving on easier. It would've made the whole sorry affair less painful, and yet I can't deny that I still find it strangely comforting.

Suede are everywhere, from Top of the Pops to the Brit Awards.
The band were catapulted to fame, and whilst I still absolutely adore their music, I can't help but feel so heartbreakingly sad whenever I hear his distinctive, beautiful voice or see his wretchedly adorable face.

I still remember how he called the hospital ward twice a day, during my stay.
Everything seemed fine.
Then once I went home.....nothing.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

At first I gave him time and space, not wanting to come across as the needy, clingy girlfriend. I convinced myself that he was just busy touring, and promoting and recording.....but after an agonising month or two of silence, I tried calling him at Moorhouse Road.

"The number you have dialled has not been recognised." The operators voice informed me over and over again each time I attempted to ring, and the only conclusion I could reach was that the number has been written down wrong.

In vain I telephoned Jane, frantically asking her to look for the crumpled piece of paper that I'd initially written Brett's number down on, that night when his sister railroaded us into agreeing to go to the hospital together.
I still remember it as if it were yesterday, but as time slips by and Jane couldn't find the number I began to lose hope.
And the anxiety and feelings of bitter rejection set in. Seeping into my very bones.

Brett & Co's number is ex-directory, so it's not in the phone book, and by the time Jane found the misplaced piece of paper, it had been months since I'd last spoke with Brett.
Suede have shot to mega-stardom, with singles in the chart, and that's when Mark's words returned to haunt me.....

"Once he's rich and famous he'll soon get bored and dump you. You'll be just another girl that he'll probably forget all about."

Any hope I had been harbouring dispersed rapidly when I at last rang the house, and to my immense regret, I ended up speaking to a seriously disgruntled, but slightly smug-sounding Damon, who told me quite categorically that Brett wasn't home, and that if I hadn't heard from him by now chances are he had been stringing me on all along, just for revenge, as he'd predicted.

I can't believe that of Brett though, I still refuse to believe it.
So instead I apologised profusely to Damon for any pain or humiliation I inadvertently caused, but made the soul-destroying decision not to try and contact Brett again.

After all, he has (or did have) my home number and address, but I never receive a single letter or call, which in the end leads me to believe that Mark was right.

Brett has forgotten me, or probably met someone else.
Someone with less baggage. Someone who isn't so insecure and doesn't end up dangerously ill as a result of their petty hang-ups.
Someone who doesn't have a dodgy medical condition, over protective parents and a hostile mother.

"It's such a shame though." Rae muses, for what must be the gazillionth time over the past couple of years. "He was so into you. It makes no sense. I mean, look at that camera he bought you....it must've cost him a mint, why would he spend so much money on you or put so much thought into a present if he didn't really care?"

I shrug and force a half-hearted smile, recalling the moment when I opened the gift bag that Brett had left in my hospital locker as a surprise for me to find after he'd left, and I almost passed out at the sight of a brand spanking new, all singing and dancing, Canon EOS-1 camera.
His thoughtfulness, had me in tears yet again, and in spite of the way things turned out, I still used it throughout my photography course at college. Even though it pained me every time I picked it up, and removed the lens cap.

"It's all in the past now Rae." I conceded. "There's no point in keep looking back. It obviously wasn't meant to be."

She eyes me sceptically, but I won't be drawn into this again.
I won't and can't keep raking over old ground.
Just because I haven't been back to London since.
Just because I've finally passed my driving test, and I'm returning to pay my dad a visit, instead of him having to make the four hour drive up here.
That doesn't mean I want to start talking and thinking about Brett again.
That was a long time ago, and that chapter of my life is most definitely closed.

I had to accept that there's no further point in mooning over what now would never be.
I should've known better than to fall for the seductive charms of a charismatic rockstar.
They collect girls like other men collect stamps.
I shouldn't have fallen in so deep.
A musician is good for a night, but not for life.

Now suddenly I want to cry again. I want to cry at the complete unfairness of it all. Of the complete unfairness of life.

And that night as I lay awake in bed, I allow myself to.
Even though I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn't cry anymore over 'him' - as Brett is now referred to, because for some reason I still find speaking his name or hearing it, unfathomably painful.

I wrongly thought I was all cried out, and had dust for tears by now but obviously I was wrong.
I cry and cry and cry.
Why am I crying so much, when I've moved on with my life?
I'm 21 now, and I'll be starting university next week. My life is coming together, my health is good, and I've moved on. I really have. I've even been on a few dates since...
But still these teardrops keep coming and deep down I know why I'm crying, sobbing into my pillow...

I'm crying for my naive 17/18 year old self who thought she was in love and going to be loved forever. I cry for how scared I felt waking up in that hospital, confused and embarrassed. I cry for falling in love with a man I shouldn't have, who has long since probably fallen in love with another woman.
I cry for our lost friendship, and for the fact that maybe I shouldn't have given up so easily trying to reach him.
At the very least, I realise now that I should have sought out closure of some kind.
I cry because I've had no idea what to do with my heart since, and for it being sealed up in a steel box for so long, aching to heal.

But no one has ever come close...

Damn Rae, for stirring up all of these old feelings.
Of course I pretend that it's no longer a big deal, but it's a massive deal and always will be.
He was the love of my life.
But even if I tried to search for him, to reach him now, would he even remember?
Could I stand the sting of humiliation if he didn't?
What if all I do is open up old wounds?
Worst of all though, I think, what if it doesn't?

Perhaps it's time to stop thinking 'what if?'