Memories are devious little things. Easily influenced by age and alcohol. I pray the snippets of last night swirling down the toilet with my vomit are nothing more than warped recollections. If not, I am completely, without a doubt, fucked!

The coolness of the sink against my clammy back is a relief unlike any other. My throat burns from the expelled tequila, nose dripping despite the numerous attempts to snort back the snot. My mother's words ring in my ears. Can't you be a little more ladylike, Emily? Were she still alive, I've no doubt Mother would be ripping the hair from her scalp to see her daughter dishevelled on the bathroom floor after a night at a girl's house, whose name I cannot remember. It definitely began with an A. Abigail, maybe? Who cares anyway? I'll never see her again and for that I'm glad.

It had been a battle in itself to pry her deadweight arms from around my waist so that I could escape into the night. I've never been one for meaningless goodbyes. Nor hanging around for breakfast. I don't play house. Not since her. No amount of blonde one-night stands could change that. Another person can not save a heart, once it has been ripped from your chest, crushed before your eyes and spat on. They can serve little more purpose than filling a primal desire.

On tingling legs, I pull myself from the floor, using the edge of the sink as leverage. The mirror spins in front of me, my reflection grimacing as I splash cold water on my face. The nausea doesn't fade.

I cannot get through today this hungover. If I'm to pluck the courage to tell her everything, I need to be of sound mind. If I fuck this up, she will never forgive me. I can't lose her twice. I need to line my stomach. Or perhaps a little hair of dog will suffice. Some Dutch courage would almost certainly make it easier for me to say what needs to be said.

A shrill ring from my bedroom tears me from my thoughts. From the ringtone, I know it's her. Calling to make sure I'm awake and getting ready, no doubt. I cannot stop my feet from padding loudly on the vinyl flooring as I race to answer. Thank the fucking lord she cannot see. Only she can turn me into a lovesick puppy, ready to ask how high when she demands I jump.

"Emily Louise Wilson! I sure as hell hope you're not hungover!" Her high pitched voice screeches through my skull, making an already bad migraine so much worse.

"Urgh, Sarah, do you have to shout?"

"I knew it. I fucking knew it. You can't lay off the drink for one day?" The mattress squeaks as I flip down, roll my eyes and mouth along with Sarah's favourite lecture. "How many times do we need to have this conversation? You're gonna drink yourself to death one of these days and I'm not gonna bail you out. You're a grown ass woman, act like it."

"Yeah, yeah. I will. I'll be fine by the time we get on that plane. Don't sweat it. You all ready for tomorrow?" I can almost hear the battle in her mind as she debates berating me further and gushing with excitement.

"Oh Em, I can't believe it's finally here. I'm finally doing it," she sighs softly into my ear, goosebumps shivering up my arm. My eyes close, heart races. I can almost feel her breath on my neck. "I can't believe this time tomorrow I'll be Mrs Sarah Dawson."

And there it is. The reality check knocking the wind from me. Tomorrow, the woman I am madly in love with, will walk past her friends and family to the outstretched hand of a man who doesn't deserve her. And I, as her best friend and maid of honour, get to witness my heart shatter from a front row seat. Isn't life fun? After an excited see you soon from Sarah, the line clicks dead.

With a groan, I push myself off the bed and trudge back to the bathroom. The tube of leaking toothpaste peels from the edge of the sink. Brushing manically, I let the foam build up in my mouth as I try to disguise the taste of booze, sick and the girl from last night.

I'm not one for makeup, have never been particularly good at it, but Sarah would flip if she saw the darkness beneath my eyes. So I do as I must. My feeble, no doubt out of date, collection of makeup clatters in the sink. Each dab of foundation and concealer, ever so slightly too light for my face with its summer tan, brings a little life back to my complexion.

"Ah fuck!"

Holding my eyelids apart I blink the tears away, black oozing from the corners. I despise mascara. Sarah is lucky I love her. No other person could convince me to make an effort like this when I'm hanging out my ass.

The woman staring back at me from the mirror looks a little less dragged through a brush than she had ten minutes earlier, her eyes a little brighter, lips less chapped with the layers of Vaseline doused on them. She's not perfect, but she'll have to do.

I refuse to dress up for a plane journey, to sit cramped in my chair with a dress that hugs me so tight I can scarcely breathe. My go to leggings and oversized T-shirt will do just as well. I can play make believe for Sarah tomorrow if the wedding goes ahead.

I hope it doesn't.

If I've any hope of winning her over, I need to tell her how I feel before she slips into her wedding dress. It cannot wait. I cannot wait. Not anymore. Not after nearly 25 years.

Today is the day. Time is cruel, the seconds ticking away until the inevitable plucks you from the earth and kicks you skywards. Tick tock. Tick tock. Today is the day. It's now or never. I just need to get on that plane.