Lyrics from Emeli Sandé's 'My Kind Of Love'.
Between 'Sleeping Together' and 'IKEA'
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I know sometimes I get angry and I say what I don't mean
I know I keep my heart protected, far away from my sleep
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you.
You've never seen her so upset before. It's sort of your fault. Well, mostly your fault. Okay— it's entirely your fault; you have no one to blame but yourself. You've never been good at making jokes and you've never understood when other people are making jokes, sometimes – like this time – it gets you into trouble. You've never been one for talking about feelings, and that's never been a problem before. But you've never felt like this before.
And now, by the time you've finally admitted you're the only one to blame, Eddi is sobbing on her bathroom floor, exhausted from throwing photo frames at your head and shattering lunch plates against walls.
You don't quite know where to start picking up the pieces: except by quite literally picking up the pieces. You sweep the glass and ceramic shards into the bin, pile the glassless frames on the coffee table. You right the fallen trinkets and replace sofa cushions. You can't put it off any longer.
'I don't know how to do this,' those words from that night ring in your head. You take her hand. It's shaking. She doesn't look at you, nor does she pull away: it's progress, you suppose. Last time you were within two feet of her, she called you names and used words you've never even heard before.
"I don't know how to do this."
She sniffles and your heart aches; the uncomfortable feeling in your chest has been there a lot lately. You don't want to think about why. You're not quite ready for that yet.
"Eddi, I—I'm sorry," you begin. The words seem ridiculous even as you say them, but they're the only words coming out of your mouth. "I didn't think—"
"You didn't think," she concedes quietly, dejectedly. You open your mouth to speak, but close it again. No words are coming out now.
"I'm sorry," you repeat. "I'm so sorry." You sit for an hour, maybe more, before you realise she's practically asleep on your shoulder. You carry her to bed, remove her watch and pull the blanket to her chin. Instantly, she curls into a ball, pulling the blanket tight around her body. You elect for her sofa. By the time she wakes up, you've ironed her uniform and infiltrated her lunch with your secret stash of chocolate buttons. By the time she wakes up, a Love Heart is on the pillow beside her head. 'I love you.'
You won't see me at the parties, I guess I'm just no fun
You won't see me turning up the radio, singing 'baby, you're the one'
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you: it beats only for you.