When are you going to give up on this ridiculous dream and come home, Skye? You know your place is here with me. We belong together. Happily ever after, just like you always wanted. E x

I frown at my phone, re-reading the message from Eddie for what seems like the thousandth time. He's really not getting the bloody hint. But then he never really was the sharpest tool in the box.

I suppose I should give you a little bit of context here, right? You probably need to know a wee bit more about my ex-boyfriend before we go any further. He was a massive part of my past, after all.

Once upon a time, Eddie and I were the dream team: ultimate #couplegoals, and destined to be together forever . . . Or so I'd thought. We'd known each other since the age of 15, when he moved to my village with his family. 

In a place where time seemed to stand still, and nothing really ever changed, he was sparkly new and incredibly exciting, with his trendy clothes, excessive levels of confidence, and his . . . Ear piercing. (Yep, we were all easily impressed.) Every girl around my age had a crush on him.

And, for some reason, he picked me. Swept me off my feet; made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. He captured my heart, my virginity . . . And, for a long time, massive chunks of my sanity.

Because approximately five years into our relationship, he cheated on me. And, only partly thanks to small village life, everyone knew about it. I was a laughing stock to some; an object of sympathy for others. Of course, the permanent bad luck cloud floating over my head was referred to on more than one occasion; as if the fact Eddie had turned out to be an unfaithful shitbucket was somehow my fault. 

I mean, sure, I'd accidentally caused a flood in his flat once; and there was that time I booked a city break to Prague but got the dates confused so we excitedly turned up at the airport two days after our flight was scheduled to leave. I'm not going to deny that Tornado Skye had caused the odd problem in our relationship over the years. But did that really justify his infidelity?

And what made it extra humiliating was the way it all happened. You see, it wasn't just all around the village because of word-of-mouth. Oh no no no! Most cheaters just take the lazy way out and shag their secretary or neighbour, but not our Eddie. He chose to go all out and betrayed me for a famous actress. We only found out about his deception because his face wound up plastered all over the tabloids!

"Julienne Silver steps out with mystery man" - that was the first (highly unimaginative) headline I personally saw, accompanied by several photos of Eddie snogging said celebrity in various locations around the Royal Mile in Edinburgh.

Anyway, the first I heard of his deception was when Mr. McDonald in the local shop waved that article in my face and said, "I dinna realise you and young Edmund had split up, lassie."

"Neither had I," I'd replied, blinking back the tears prickling in my eyes as I studied the photographs - the quality might not have been the best, but there was no doubt that Julienne's mystery man was indeed my so-called boyfriend. Who, as far as I was aware, had been on a stag weekend with some old friends from his childhood.

By the time I found out, most of the village already knew. And anyone I knew who lived elsewhere was also aware. Especially once one of those scumpapers found out Eddie's name, did some digging, and dragged me into it: the poor beleaguered girlfriend he was cheating on back home. They even managed to get a photograph of me - capturing my terrible hangover after a night of drowning my sorrows for posterity. The trolling comments on that Daily Fail post still haunt me years later, and likely will continue to linger in the shadows of my mind until my dying day.

How did my boyfriend even manage to hook up with an A-lister? I'm still not sure, to be honest. He's always been a bit vague on the details; apparently the stag weekend was genuine and not just a cover, but he met her in a club and got "slightly carried away" - his words, not mine. He insisted there was never going to be a future in it; "not like us, Skye. You're my forever girl. If anything, this little blip has proved that for me, once, and for all."

The fact he referred to cheating on me, publically, and metaphorically putting my heart through a shredder, as a "little blip" was, frankly, infuriating. I was determined to make him suffer for his unfaithfulness. But, despite the fact I made him jump through hoops for months to prove he deserved my love again, I always knew deep down I would take him back. In retrospect, I know that was stupid . . . But I loved him, and he was all I knew. Our relationship was like an old comfort blanket - it might be torn and falling apart at the seams, but it still wrapped me up in fond nostalgia.

Things were never really the same, though, even when we did eventually get back together. The shiny sheen that had once encased our relationship was tarnished now, and cracks had formed that could never fully be repaired. For me, at least. Eddie somehow seemed more convinced by the day that we were now on the road to marriage and babies and growing old together; he was fully committed now that he'd sowed his wild oats . . . But I no longer wanted to venture down that same avenue. Not with him, anyway.

And I was becoming increasingly sure I wanted to move away and see if there was more to life than this little village where everyone knew pretty much every single thing about me.  

So I ended it with him, finally, last year.  Yes, there had been a couple of backslides where we'd ended up in bed together, but I'd always made it clear we weren't reuniting. I'd even told him about my tentative plans to leave. He'd belly-laughed in a way he usually only reserves for his favourite stand-up comedian (Kevin Bridges, FYI) and then informed me I'd never go through with it.

How very supportive of him, eh?

Anyway, maybe he was right. It's possible I wouldn't have actually moved after all. Until the fateful night last month in the local pub when I met . . . Him. That's when all of the dots finally seemed to join together; a picture had formed for me of my possible future, and Eddie was not the guy in that image.

But that's another story, for another day. The tale I'm not quite ready to tell you yet. After all, I currently only have access to the prologue of that particular book . . . The rest is still waiting to be written. Once I - hopefully - find this guy again.

In the meantime, I turn my attention back to Eddie's message. Part of me doesn't particularly want to answer it at all. But I hate leaving people hanging, and I know he will just keep messaging unless I'm completely brutal in my response.

I'm not "coming home", Eddie. Glasgow is my home now. And we're never getting back together. Keep your "happily ever after"  - it isn't mine. S

Take that, Eddie!