I had nothing, nothing left to hang on to my own body, my envelope. He was gone, and with him all my plans, my hopes, my stupid dreams, and my laugh. I was not enough, once again, not enough to keep him, to make him happy, not strong enough.

And there I was, for the very first time, genuinely alone.

Therapy, sessions, pills… Nothing could help, because I did not want help. I wanted to feel. I needed the pain, the nightmares, the anger, the rage.
But at the end of the day, I was still here, I chose to stay. Not that it didn't occur to me to go, to follow him… But, well, I chose my path, I stayed, I was not ready.

So, I simply did what I always do in a crisis: I ran. Well, more precisely, I packed all my stuff, most of his, sold the TV, our fridge, rented a van, and brought all our books to my grand-mother's house.

There, I had tea and a good cry, she asked me to stay for diner, to take a biscuit, I said I wasn't hungry and I had to go, anyway. But thank you, I love you, I'll see you soon, and take care of yourself.

I returned the van and went to my parents' place. Yes, now you think I am just a selfish kid. Not so alone after all. No, they are, as always, here for me. And they are amazing.

Look, I am not really expecting you to empathize with me. I mean, not so soon, we barely know each other, that would seem unfair. But I have to tell you. He was, everything to me, from best friend to lover. I adored him, he was my anchor, my guide. I know, cheesy, silly even, but whatever we had, it is gone, he ended it.

There. I sat on my bed, pulled myself together, and got started.

Résumés, letters, e-mails… I need two things: a job, and a roof. Oh, and a destination. I wanted people, many. I wanted chaos, and noise. But my finances being… what they were… I ruled out New York and Tokyo quite quickly. Paris was out of the question, I needed to get out of France. So… That left me with Berlin, London, or maybe Dublin. I am not a Latin person, and with my Master's degree in English lit', there was no way I was heading south.

So, there I was, sending bombarding all the schools with words, showing strangers how trustworthy, stable, and smart I was.

I forced myself to eat, to read, to sleep, to talk, and to go out in the sun.

On the next day, I started to look for a flat. That is when Berlin was crossed out. That city was fabulous, but I really did not feel like living in a huge flat, with parties every other night and piles of dishes rotting away in the sink.
I was actually quite happy with the idea of putting miles of water between the continent and myself. Great Britain, here I come!

Flats in suburbs, no way. Five international students looking for a flatmate, nope. Over-expensive duplex near the City, haha.

After two more days, I got myself four interviews in Dublin and three in London… But still no place to live. That is when I decided to book a flight to London anyway. I would couchsurf, attend the interviews, and hope for the best. Five days later, if nothing worked, I would fly to Dublin and repeat the pattern.

London was a shock, as always. I stayed with an adorable couple, told blank lies about being "a little lost" and "needing to practice my English". I socialized enough not to attract attention, bought food and a bottle of nice wine, smiled and laughed.

It felt good. It felt normal. It felt like I was on the right path.

I went to all my interviews, one or two each day. And I started looking for a place to live. The five days went by so fast I almost forgot the pain, actually, I forgot everything. I just ran into the tube, caught buses, got the free news-papers and a red pen, and circled away, like in movies.

Within five days, I saw everything. Potheads, grannies, christian communities, hippies, goths, big flats, small ones, clean, filthy, cute, pink, austere, jungle-like… And on the fifth day, I found myself in Baker Street.

I had almost set my mind on the last place I had visited. Cute, near Camden, inhabited by a pretty punk-nerd girl named Iseult. But an ad caught my eye in the paper.

Man - 35 - Searching for tidy, intelligent, non-smoking flatmate.
No journalist - Very serious.
Call Mrs Hudson 7285 2012 - 221B Baker St.

I called. A very sweet, but obviously overwhelmed, lady told me to come around at 4:30 PM the very same day.

Baker street. Affordable? The place was probably awful, or the guy some kind of creep… Anyway, what could happen? It was worth checking. So, there I was, with my little folder and a bagel. As I walked, I started to see a small agitated crowd in front of what seemed to be 221B Baker Street.

As I approached, my headphones putting a soundtrack to this mess, I realized the people were… Journalists?

I almost walked away, but, well, that would have been quite odd coming from me. I got curious, as usual. They were all exited and asking tons of questions to the tall guy guarding the door. A guard? What was this place? I finished my bagel, brush of the crumbs and, with my headphones still on, worked my way up to the door.

My hair was hidden under my gray hat and my collar up to my nose… Which was good news because a lot of pictures were taken, and I probably looked like a ghost. I saw the tall guy was talking to me, so I finally turned the music down and got submerged by all the screaming and questioning.

"No one gets in Miss, unless you —"

"I have an appointment! Here is my I.D.", I cut him short, but he let me in after a long look at my card. I could not decipher a full sentence from the wave of words that had just crashed over me. I did hear 'did you know him?' and maybe the word 'suicide'… But that, my mind could have very easily made up.

I was inside. The shouting was muffled by the thick door, and I was… Alone.

A clock was ticking gently, and I could hear footsteps upstairs. The hall was dark, the good kind of darkness, soothing, peaceful. After a few seconds I realized I had my back flat against the door, I was leaning on it as if I was keeping the flow of people and voices to come inside. I pulled myself together and called out "hello?" My own voice sounded small and slightly too high-pitched.

I heard two voices upstairs, soon followed by the sound of the wood creaking under someone's footsteps. A very British lady appeared, she looked like a mouse, she was small, petite, and had piercing eyes.
"Miss Morstan, is it?"
"Yes, it's me. Mrs Hudson, I suppose?"
She nodded while shacking my hand, led me upstairs, told me to sit in a cute little armchair, and left me there, muttering something about tea, and just a minute.