I hissed when the knife had nicked my finger as I cut tomatoes for our dinner.

"For goodness sake," I muttered when I had to search through the boxes and bottles in our medicine cabinet. There were still dozens of varieties of cough syrup for when Tim had the cold and they had a sticky residue to the outside of them which was unpleasant to have put my hand in.

"Tim, have you seen the plasters," I called. He didn't seem to hear me.

They were right at the back and as I moved the other boxes and bottles out of the way I began to notice that they all had Tim's name on them. I picked up one of the boxes of tablets but didn't recognise the name of it. It was no wonder he took so long to get better when he refused to take the antibiotics.

It took me a few moments to register that the date was more recent and I rather stupidly wondered if Tim had the cold and I hadn't noticed.

"What did you say," he appeared in the doorway, a copy of Pride and Prejudice in his hand.

"What is this," I asked fearfully.

His eyes flickered from my face to the box in my hand and his eyes widened.

"Oh that," he replied smoothly. "That's just for a rash I have."

"Where?"

I cocked my head at him, knowing that he was lying and disbelieving that he would continue with it. He looked down and ignored me.

I grabbed another box from the cupboard and and read the label.

"Fluoxetine. What is that, what is it for?"

He gave a nervous laugh.

"For the flu obviously."

I stared him down and he became agitated.

"The plasters are in there," he said cheekily before stalking off. I followed.

"Tim."

"What?"

I was looking at the box.

"You would tell me, right? If something was, you know, wrong."

My heart was beating abnormally fast.

"I'm fine," he said casually.

"Tell me what these are for, please. I don't want us to have secrets," I was half begging but right now I didn't care about my pride.

He seemed to let his shoulders fall in defeat.

"They're antidepressants, okay? You told me I needed professional help so I got it," he sneered at me. "And now everything is worse and noisy inside my head and I can't have sex and you'll grow tired of me soon," he stated as thought it were a matter of fact.

I didn't know what to say to him. He wasn't even looking at me for a reply.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He fidgeted.

"Because I'm failing at everything and this was just another thing that you could laugh at me for. Poor Tim can't do a thing for himself, he's so helpless. All I'm good for is a fuck, that's all I've ever been good for, and I can't even do that now."

He broke down then and sobbed into his hands. I moved to hold him and he clutched my shirt like a desperate man.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "Please Ivo, please don't leave me."

"I'm not leaving you, I promise."

"I'm like my mother," he gave a chilling laugh, his eyes looking at things I couldn't see.

"It just gets you and then you never get free of it."

I could only stroke his hair and try to quieten him.

"It'll be okay."

I felt like a liar when I said it. I didn't know if it would be.

"We're going away," I told him and he stopped crying out of confusion.

"What," he asked thickly.

"We'll go away somewhere. We can clear our heads, it'll be like how it used to be," I said fondly and he looked up at me, his eyes piercing into mine.

"Where?"

"Anywhere you want," I kissed his forehead as I told him.

"You really love me."

He seemed to ponder it once he had said it.

"I do."

"You're a fool," he sighed with a smile, looking at me the way he did when we first met.

"But I'm your fool."

"That's the best kind," he smiled and wiped at his nose and eyes with his sleeve.