2012.
Harry.
It's been almost fifteen months.
Fifteen months where I'd had to make police statements. Had to convince my family I wasn't taking nor dealing cocaine at school. I had to resit my A-Level exams, then sit through an excruciating interview with the application board of the University to try and convince them to reinstate place for the next academic year.
I had to explain what happened.
That my best friend had been through hell and back, and that she was so afraid for her safety that she'd lied to save herself. Which, in turn condemned me.
After I'd finished, one of the panelist's interviewing me asked how the girl was doing now.
I noticed her sad, yet slightly hopefully expression, and I felt something twist painfully inside of me.
I don't know, I told her.
Before all of that, it took me three weeks after being escorted from School property by the police to get the nerves to reach out to Riley.
I was mad at first. Agonisingly, jaw achingly angry. I wasn't really sure at who. At Jason, obviously. At myself, for being so stupid and not pushing her to stay home that day? Or at Riley, for lying?
But the problem was, when I thought about Riley, and what she'd done; I didn't really feel that same, red hot anger.
I could see the look on her face when the lie had fallen from her lips. She looked totally empty. Vacant. Broken.
I just felt fucking sad.
Until eventually that sorrow turned into a frantic desperation, just to find out how she was. Had she reported Jason? Managed to keep him away from her over the summer? How had her parents reacted?
That's how I'd ended up on her doorstep on a Tuesday morning three weeks into the summer break.
It's the first time I'd knocked on her door. Usually I just parked up at the end of her driveway in the middle of the night, waiting with a hammering heart, not quite believing she'd slip out of the door and run into my van time and time again.
The person that answered the door was quite clearly her mother. They had the same deep brunette locks, same little round nose. But the softness was missing from this woman's eyes; though maybe they still held the same whisper of fear.
"Hi. I'm looking for Riley?"
I was feigning the politeness to my tone. I didn't have much nice to say about Riley's parents. At best they were neglectful; worst, they enabled her to be abused for months on end by Jason. It struck me sick to know that I'd done the same.
The woman doesn't say anything, just slips a dismissive look down her nose to me before going to close the door. I hold it open with my palm.
"I'm Harry-" I begin to tell her, as if that'll make the blindest bit of difference.
To my utter shock, she snips out, "We know exactly who you are. She told us all about you before she left."
"She left? Riley left? Where did she go?"
The woman grimaces, and I swear I see a flash of remorse before it vanished back into a harsh, crude glare. "Apparently you already know all about where she's ran off to. You're the one that convinced her to ruin her life with that pathetic little school."
She goes to slam the door in my face again, but I hold it back once more.
"Do you...do you know if she's okay?"
The woman doesn't say anything, and I let her close the door this time, already knowing that she didn't have an answer for me.
Riley was gone.
That was such a long time ago now, or at least as long as fifteen months can feel.
It's mid Mid November.
I've been at University for over a month. Classes are going okay. A few of my friends had managed to get on the same degree as me, and we'd moved into a little flat together. It wasn't much; but I'd managed to get the room at the front of the building that had a large window looking out onto the busy street below.
I don't know how often I'd glance out of the window, searching.
I knew where her campus was, but not her dorm room. Sometimes I'd drive through that area, eyes reaching out to find her. Every now and again I'd spot someone - a head of long brunette locks - so sure that it was her, that I'd stop my van and get out, calling after her. But when eventually, whoever it was turned around and I'd come to realise it wasn't her, it's like my heart crumbled to my feet.
I'd tried calling her phone. Of course I had. But the number I had for her had been disconnected.
I'd even opened a Facebook account, after Mitch told me I'd easily find her on there. But she wasn't there.
Like she was a ghost. A spirit I'd dreamed up.
I eased into University life. Made new friends; even kissed a girl one night at a club. Tried to move on. But I was always looking. Always had one eye looking out for her.
Until I wasn't.
Until I was working at the music shop one day, stacking books of music notes on the shelves - when I saw her.
Browsing the records by the front window.
I wasn't sure at first, I thought maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. Maybe the sun from the window causing her figure to blur around the edges was creating a mirage of her.
I stepped closer - one careful, terrified step, and I knew it was her.
She looked different. Her hair was shorter, the top of it pulled into a messy bun, little pieces hanging around her face.
I couldn't help the grin exploding on my face at what she was wearing. A black, baggy Beatles T-shirt, a pair of denim shorts and a bright yellow pair of Doc Martens.
She'd never looked more like herself.
I'm struggling to catch my breath, watching as she flips idly through the records. She's got a set of headphones in her ears. I wonder what she's listening to. If she was listening to one of our songs.
They were all ours really. Music, something that shaped me, drove every part of me, had been tainted by her for a long time now.
I couldn't even listen to my own records without remembering the times we'd sang along to them in the van. Couldn't sit behind the wheel without wondering if I really had caught a trace of her perfume; like vanilla frosting or wildflowers in a field. Only to look over to see the empty passenger seat. Knowing it was my mind playing cruel tricks on me.
But that's really her, just across the shop floor from me. My body is positively vibrating; with what I'm not sure. Fear? Elation?
Move, I tell myself.
I take a step forward, but as I do, a girl pokes her head into the door of the shop, calling her name.
She drops the record, pulling a headphone out and greets her friend.
She's leaving. I walk forward, but I'm not quick enough and my voice is stuck in my throat.
She leaves.
She's gone again.
2013.
I'm sat in Linda's office.
It's my last day in therapy; I'd put it off for a long time, but eventually the nightmares had become too encompassing.
I thought if I waited it out, they'd stop, but if anything they got worse.
Sometimes I didn't even have to be asleep to get flashbacks of finding Riley on that bathroom floor.
Her ripped dress.
Her blood soaked legs.
The way she cried out my name, like a wounded animal.
But when I did see that night in my dreams, I'd wake gasping, covered in sweat, shouting for her.
It'd caused my girlfriend, Amanda, to leave me three months ago. She'd tried to be understanding at first, but eventually the sound of another girls name on my lips got to be too much for her.
It had gotten too much for me too.
I just wanted them to stop. I wanted to move on.
That's what'd brought me to Linda, a friend of my mothers. Initially, I'd been nervous wreck, not sure if I was ready to talk about everything.
It wasn't easy at first. I couldn't talk about that night without bursting into tears.
The medication helped. Helped me sleep at least.
Three months of therapy, and Linda is smiling at me from her chair.
"How do you feel about us being done here?" She asks, closing her little notebook for what would be the last time.
"I don't know. Weird. A bit scared."
"What are you scared of Harry?"
I shrug. What was I scared of?
"Acceptance, I think," I say, huffing out a breath. Linda smiles, a soft smile that makes it almost too easy to keep talking. "That I'm moving on."
Linda nods.
"And what's next for you?"
I feel a secret, little smile tug at my lips. One of excitement.
"I'm going back to school," I tell her. "I'm studying psychology. I...I want to help adolescents that have suffered abuse and trauma."
Linda nods. "That makes sense for you. I think it'll help you move on, to feel like you're being proactive."
I know what she means by her vague statement. That I'll be helping people like the same girl that'd plagued my dreams for so long, after feeling like I'd let her down.
Linda had tried to help me make peace with what happened. She said it wasn't my fault or responsibility to get Riley out of that mess with Jason. And that I couldn't live carrying that regret around with me.
Riley had moved on - or at least I hoped she had. I had to try to as well.
October 2019.
I'm back in Islington.
I'm home to visit Mitch and his girlfriend, Sarah, who have moved back here. They haven't been together long, but I think they're pretty serious.
Their relationship confuses me. They were so sure of each other straight away. It was all so easy for them, to love each other.
I'd had a string of girlfriends, one after another, but I'd never found what Mitch and Sarah had.
I was "picky" according to my friends. "Still looking" my mother said.
The first few months of a new relationship were usually fine. Exciting. Exhilarating even. Driven by lust and the promise of uncovering every secret corner of a person.
But the more I uncovered, I'd find myself becoming bored.
The longest I'd stuck it out was nine months, with my last girlfriend Haley. She was nice. Pretty, with big blue eyes and reddish brown hair.
It took her nine months to tell me she loved me, one morning laid wrapped around one another in bed.
She told me, and I couldn't breathe.
Maybe I'd have felt bad for not responding, if it wasn't for the fact that I already knew she'd started sleeping with one of my friends from work two months ago.
That's not why I couldn't say it back though.
She told me she loved me, and I told her we should break up.
I think that's why Mitch and Sarah assumed I'd been so quiet all night; that I was messed up from my recent breakup.
Neither of them had cottoned on to the fact that it's because I'd come home for the weekend to see them.
That every time I'd come back to Islington in the last seven years, I spent the entire time feeling like I had a blade in my chest, twisting, agitating a deep, sharp wound that never really fully healed.
"So when are you moving back here?" Mitch asks over the beer in his hands.
I shrug. "Who says I am?"
Mitch scoffs. "You're miserable in the city. You hate your job. I have some friends with a spare room. Come back home."
November 2019.
I move back to Islington. I leave my job as a private psychiatrist. I'm happier. Closer to my friends. My mum.
We start playing as a band more often.
I start giving guitar lessons to pay rent. And volunteering at a Youth Club.
I talk to my friends about opening my own record shop one day.
2021.
I'm happy.
Islington Council give me a business grant. Today I open my own market stall.
Life feels easier. I've been going on some dates that Sarah sets up for me. Nothing ever comes from them, but I don't feel that same panic that I need to try and find someone. Force a connection that isn't there. I've been on my own for a while now, and it feels okay.
I'm excited.
Mitch and a few other friends help me set up the stall. I fill shelves with vinyls, playing Fleetwood Mac through the speakers.
The other vendors seem nice. A blonde girl named Lucy introduces herself; she's pretty enough. Mitch tells me to ask her out for a drink. I think about it.
There's a stall next to mine, selling cupcakes and pastry's by the looks of it. Whoever runs it hasn't turned up yet, but I look forward to meeting whoever my neighbour is going to be.
I hadn't felt this settled in such a long time. Content with myself or my choices.
I'm nearly set up for my first day, stood talking with Mitch and the others. He makes a joke and I'm laughing before his eyes shift over my shoulder, to something behind me.
I turn, almost knocking a tray of drinks out of the hands of whoever had snuck up to my back. I grab their arms and my palms burn.
The air is ripped from my lungs.
It's her.
I don't know how to react. My heart wants to burst from its chest, it's frantic to get out. I need to let go of her arms, but my hands are rigid, locked around her.
Her skin is soft under my calloused hands. Silky like butter. Is that how it had always felt?
She looks as shocked as I feel, as though she'd seen a ghost; her eyes wide and red and darting over my face like I wasn't real.
I was happy.
I was content.
I'd moved on.
It's like life was punishing me. Like it'd waited until I finally felt able to breath just to reopen that scar in my chest, flesh ripping violently apart.
I don't know what to feel.
I'm angry. At her. Like she'd done this on purpose.
"Riley Fucking Smith."