A broken mug in his hand and blood dripping though his fingers, he was stood facing the wall, body shaking with grief and rage. He lashed out. The pieces of mug crashed to the floor. Shards of ceramic flew across the room. Striking the wall, over and over again with powerful, aggressive blows, he didn't seem to notice the pain. I cried out as his knees gave way and he fell to the ground.

His blood smeared great handprints across the concrete as he searched blindly for the letter. Bowed down on his hands and knees at my feet, I could almost touch him. But not quite. His fingers met the paper, he unfolded it clumsily, tearing the pages. Holding the sheet above his head like a trophy, he screamed my name.

I couldn't read the writing. Blood and ink splattered the page but I knew what it meant. His screaming, his tears, his pain and his blood.

It meant that he loved me.