"Hey sweets, heard anything yet?"

I shake my head at Gabriela, who has just poked her head around my door. It's been over twenty-four hours since Al and I argued, and I gave up checking my phone for texts last night. At least my eyes have finally run out of tears; I've already cried my way through one whole box of balsam tissues.

"No. The only person who's sent me a message recently is my Mum, wanting to know exactly what a 'triple A' was, because Mr Fairclough, the man who owns our local newsagent back home, got rushed to hospital with one on Tuesday," I relay listlessly.

"Oh. I'm guessing it's not a type of battery," replies Gabriela, coming into my room and making straight for her usual spot on my bed.

I shake my head. "Nope. Stands for abdominal aortic aneurysm. Very serious, actually - luckily, they got him to theatre in time. I've given up expecting to hear anything from…well, you know. Just trying to get on with some revision, because yesterday was a total wipeout. Where's Marcus, by the way?"

"He's working in the lab today. Plus I thought we could hang out and have lunch together like we used to?"

"Gabs, you don't need to babysit me. I'm fine; really I am."

Gabriela ignores me and ploughs on. "So what should we have, then? I've got some tagliatelle and a pot of mascarpone and tomato sauce to go with it, or we could go to the refectory and see what's on the menu?"

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm not actually hungry."

"Sunny."

"Gabi."

"Did you have breakfast?"

"Are you my mother?"

"Would you listen if I was?"

"What do you think?"

"Sunny, at least have something," she sighs. "I know you think you don't want anything right now, but honestly you're going to feel terrible by this evening if you don't make yourself eat today. Please?"

"I've got some chocolate somewhere," I shrug.

"I mean a proper meal, Sunny. Fucking Hell, your eating habits are shit on a good day, never mind now this has happened."

"Gabi, just leave it, okay? Look, I've got to get back to revising."

"Honestly Sunny, you are a pain in the arse."

"Yeah, I suppose I am really."

Gabriela continues in her no-nonsense tone. "I tell you what; I'm going to make enough pasta for both of us. Feel free to take it or leave it."

With that, she departs my room, an air of finality about her.

I let out a sigh and rub my temples. I know Gabriela has a point, but I currently have no appetite whatsoever.

My mind yo-yos back to yesterday again, to that fateful argument. Inwardly I cringe as I recall some of the particularly awful things I said. If only there was some way of taking them back, I would, but obviously I can't, and it's done now.

It's a stupid term in which to begin a relationship, anyway. Who starts dating during the exam period? Only total idiots like me, clearly. Next time I manage to pin down a bloke, I'll start going out with him during a sensible, quiet time of year - January or February, for example. If a man ever looks at me again like Al used to look at me, that is.

Fuck, that was probably my one and only chance at happiness. Maybe if I'm really fortunate, one day I'll wind up with another version of Paul. Or several cats.

Cats would be fine. I could definitely learn to like cats.

But Al should have fucking told me about Peru, shouldn't he? We talked almost every day during the holidays, for fuck's sake! He had so many chances to say something, and didn't take a single one.

And he turned his phone off and refused to communicate yesterday, didn't he? At least I tried to call him, tried to resolve this.

Now I'm verging on angry again.

I stab my neuroanatomy handbook moodily with a pen, willing my brain to stop mulling over the stupid past and start concentrating on upcoming exams.

Twenty minutes and not much studying later, Gabriela waltzes back into my room and unceremoniously plonks a bowl full of pasta on my desk. I sneak a furtive glance over at it, guiltily noting just how much effort she's put in. She's really gone to town on the presentation; it's beautifully adorned with criss-cross parmesan shavings and garnished with a cute little duo of basil leaves. And it does smell pretty good. Gabriela gives me a loaded smile and settles down onto my bed to eat her serving.

I'm beaten and I know it. Frowning, I pick up the fork and carefully sift through the tangled mass before twisting up a single piece of tagliatelle, intending only to have a small bite, a taster, but you know tagliatelle; there's an art to snaring it neatly, and despite searching for a short bit, I seem to have inadvertently selected some massively long ribbon which goes on for miles. By the time I've finished twiddling, my wrist hurts and my fork has become a choking hazard. In contrast, Gabriela seems to be coping perfectly well with her portion; I notice her tagliatelle isn't trying to asphyxiate her.

This meal could be a metaphor for my life. What hope do I have of maintaining a relationship when I can't even fathom pasta?

Gloomily, I unwind my fork and start again.

"How is it, Sunny? I hope the pasta's not too al dente."

"Not at all. It bends; it's fine," I reply, hurriedly adding, "it's absolutely delicious, by the way."

Which it is. Gabriella is, by far and away, Queen Chef of our corridor of four. It's a toss-up who would qualify as sous-chef out of Aveline, Rhiannon and I, as we're all equally piss-poor at cooking.

We eat in silence; Gabriela staring at her phone whilst I'm poring over pathology notes, trying (and failing) to get my head around the complement cascade. Minutes go by as I absent-mindedly pluck at parmesan and pasta, memorising cytokine names and functions, until only the little stalk of basil is left. I let out a satiated sigh.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah, I do, actually." I lean back in my chair, one hand gently massaging my stomach. "Thanks, Gabi - you were right. It was exactly what I needed."

"Oh good."

I look across at Gabriela, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude and affection for my good friend who knows me like she does, who overlooks my idiocies, and supports me when I'm down. We have our moments of misunderstanding, but it's at times like this I wonder where I'd be without her.

"You're the best, Gabs."

"Any time, darling." With that, she springs off my bed and goes to scoop up the empty bowls. "Now that my job here is done, I guess I better go and crack on with some revision."

"Leave those, Gabs," I say, moving the crockery out of her reach. "I'll wash them up in a minute."

"I can do them, Sunny. It's no bother."

"Nah, let me. I need to get up and have a stretch anyway."

"You're a star." Gabriela blows me a kiss, flashes me a bright smile and disappears out of my room.

******

Washing up done, I knuckle down for another hour of steady revision, pushing away the desire for a post-prandial nap. Half-way through a rather confusing section containing some unidentifiable bits of histology, the urge to brush up on some slide work strikes, and I consult my course timetable to see when the pathology department will be open for practical revision classes.

Hmm.

There's an optional session scheduled for three o'clock today, which is an hour away. I'm torn, because I really could do with a recap, but what if Al's there and I'm not emotionally ready to see him? What if he's not there because he doesn't want to see me - wouldn't that be worse? Maybe it's better if I don't go, but then again, I nearly failed Physiology last year and I need all the study sessions I can get.

Honestly; fuck my life.

A sharp rap on the door takes me by surprise. I pad across the room to open it cautiously, knowing it won't be Gabriela, and hoping to fuck it's not Paul instead, coming to shriek "Told you so!" in my face like some raging fanatic.

To my eternal relief, it's not Paul. It's just Gerald, one of the college porters.

"Someone to see you in the Porter's Lodge, love," he says with a twinkly smile. "Tried to buzz your room, but it seems as though the switchboard is malfunctioning. I'll get a technician out to fix the intercom system as soon as possible."

"Who is it?"

"Some young fella, love. I've seen him here before. Tall with dark hair."

My heart rate accelerates. It can only be Al. Oh God. I flail momentarily before making a split-second decision and plunging in.

"Thanks, Gerry. I'll be down in a minute."

"Right you are, love," he replies before walking stiffly away as my mind kicks into overdrive with all sorts of theories and possibilities.

Al is here.

But why didn't he text or call me first?

Shit. It must be because he's doing the 'decent' thing and breaking up with me face to face. Any residual anger that infused me earlier has completely dissipated, and this after-dinner calm has suddenly given way to stomach-churning anxiety. I hunch my shoulders, convinced I'm about to throw up.

Courage, Sunita. You can face him. You can.

I can, but do I want to hear what he has to say?

It's going to happen sooner or later.

There's no way to avoid it.

May as well get it over and done with.

Slowly, fretfully, I trudge out of my room and along the corridor, down Staircase K, across the cobbled walkway of Second Court, my pace decreasing as I approach the Porter's Lodge near the college entrance, dreading the fate that awaits me.

Al is hovering next to the Porter's Lodge, just inside the college's wrought iron gates, hands in his pockets, bag slung casually over his shoulder. With his height and blank expression, he casts an imposing figure against the metalwork. I halt a few feet away, gathering what little courage I have to stand as tall as possible, matching his posture. Like two chess figurines, we silently hold our positions, waiting to see who will make the first move.

A few seconds pass before Al breaks the silence.

"Can we talk?"

He says it in exactly the same flat tone of voice that Mr Fairclough used when he sacked me at the tender age of fourteen from my first ever job as a newspaper-delivery girl, and instantly I feel the blood drain from my face. I know Al is going to tell me for definite that's it, finito, end of story, and he doesn't want to be with me any longer. My intestines are screaming. The fact that they have no vocal cords and cannot actually scream is entirely irrelevant.

I wish I was anywhere but here.

I incline my head slightly to acknowledge Al's request to dump me, avoiding eye contact as I ready myself for his words. Steady, Sunita. There's life after a break-up. Don't wilt, or cry, or show any sort of emotional weakness. You've got this. You have. I wrap my arms around myself; me holding me, waiting for him to deal this final blow.

He lets out a breath then pauses. I jump in, taking the opportunity to save him from dismissing me like an idiot newspaper-girl who once got a whole road of Guardians mixed up with some Daily Expresses, and fed a Sunday Telegraph supplement to someone's rottweiler because it wanted to eat her arm instead.

"It's okay, Al; I totally understand. It's - it's fine, really it is. I'll be…fine."

"I'm sorry, Sunny."

"I know. I'm sorry too. It was…nice while it lasted," I reply dully.

"I should have said something sooner. I'm not surprised you got angry; I would have felt the same. Hang on - what was nice while it lasted? What are you talking about?"

"Well, it's over, isn't it? You're…you've had enough…you deserve better…I said some hurtful things, and…and…"

"Wait - what? No! Why would I…oh, shit, I'm sorry sweetheart…Sunny? Hey, Sunny?"

Two arms envelop me and I can feel the firm contours of Al's chest pressing comfortingly against my body as I struggle to suppress my emotions.

"I…I just thought…Oh Al!" I twist my arms around his torso and bury my face into his shoulder to hide the relieved tears that are now threatening to spill down my cheeks.

"I should have told you earlier. It's my fault - I'm so sorry." He runs a comforting hand through my hair and hugs me close. "I fucked up, sweetheart. There never seemed to be quite the right moment to say something, despite having plenty of opportunities to do so. But the way it just sort of came out in conversation? That really wasn't how I wanted you to find out."

"It's okay," I mumble thickly. "I'm sorry, Al. Really, I am."

"What on earth are you apologising for? I'm the one who was out of order. I should have said something earlier."

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have flown off the handle like that. God, I fucked up and I never should have said all that…"

"Your reaction was perfectly justified. I had no right to speak to you like that, and I should have tried to resolve it immediately instead of letting you walk away. I thought we needed a cooling-off period, that's all. I read it completely wrongly."

"Storm away, you mean. I stormed away. Fucking Hell, why do I lose my temper so easily? I shouldn't have got so angry. It's not like you HAD to tell me! Seriously, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"Sunny, it's not your fault; it's mine."

"Bollocks, Al; I'm to blame for this one."

"Don't be fucking ridiculous…what?" Al retorts as I burst into rather soggy laughter.

"We're being ridiculous! Why the fuck are we arguing over an argument? We were both in the wrong; let's leave it at that."

He kisses me on the tip of my nose. "The fault is mine, Sunny. You are not to blame."

"Anyway," I press on soberly, "regardless of whose fault it was or wasn't, it doesn't change the fact that you're going to Peru next year. I guess the sensible thing would be to go our separate ways at the end of the summer, but…"

"The sensible thing would be to not make any decisions just yet."

"If you're sure."

"How about we discuss it nearer the time, yeah?"

I nod tearfully, not really wanting to delve any further into the painful Peru topic. "I tried to call you yesterday," I mumble. "Couldn't get through. Thought you'd switched your phone off deliberately."

"I went to visit my cousin in London and the signal at his place is terrible," he says with a groan.

"So you weren't shutting me out on purpose, then?"

"No! I just thought we both needed some time to cool off, that's all. I had no idea what vivid notions were circling your mind."

"You seem to end up in an awful lot of places with crap mobile signal," I muse. "I'm amazed there's anywhere in London without half-decent reception, and yet you've found two places where the signal drops out completely. How strange."

"It is, isn't it?"

"How can you stand not having a network signal? It drives me mad not to be able to access the internet or send a message. I'm totally lost without my phone!"

"Yeah, I've never been that reliant on mine, I suppose," replies Al, shifting slightly. "We weren't allowed them at school and I guess I've grown up without needing one."

"Jeez, Al! Where were you educated? Borstal?"

"Um, no? What's Borstal anyway?"

"You've never heard of the term 'Borstal'?" I laugh in surprise and relief that we're finally talking normally again. "It was supposed to be a joke. Borstal no longer exists, but it used to be a youth detention centre. Inmates most definitely wouldn't have been allowed to possess anything like a mobile phone."

"Youth detention centre? For juvenile criminals? Seriously; is that what you think of me?" Al's voice becomes dangerously soft, and there's a determined gleam in his eyes. Before I can respond, he's cupped my jaw with his palm and his lips are parting mine.

In front of the Porter's Lodge.

In full view of everyone around.

And you know what? I don't care in the slightest. In fact, I take the opportunity to reciprocate with gusto, because I've missed this so much.

I'm not sure how long we stand there, surgically attached at the mouth, my hands furrowing Al's hair, his cradling my face. Time seems irrelevant until somebody coughs softly behind us. Suddenly, I'm aware that we're blocking the college entrance and it must be close to three o'clock by now; I suppose I should be on my way to University for this afternoon's class.

Al and I shuffle awkwardly to one side, still holding on to each other. I rest my head contentedly on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent and revelling in the presence of his body next to mine.

"Al?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to the path revision session at three?"

"Yes, I guess I should. Are you?"

"Of course."

"Be my lab partner?"

"Go on, then. No intimidating me with your scary knowledge, though."

"Sunny, don't be ridiculous. I don't know any more than you do!"

"Al, that's the most hilarious thing you've said all week," I reply, shaking my head at this blatant untruth. "Will you wait here for me, then? I just need to grab my lab-coat and stuff."

"Of course."

I reach up, kiss him quickly on his cheek, and leg it back to my room to swiftly cram all my things into my bag. My heart is singing. He didn't dump me. It's not over. It's okay.

A little tear of relief and happiness makes its way out of one eye, and I brush it away as I charge full-tilt back to where Al is standing. Seeing him there, slouched against the Porter's Lodge wall, a genuine smile etched across his face, makes my heart want to burst. He holds his hand out for mine and we begin to walk.

"Sunny?"

"Hmm?"

"I've been thinking."

"Dangerous pastime, Al."

His laughter rings out, rich and glorious as he squeezes my hand. "I was going to say, why don't we have a proper evening off from studying tonight?"

"I really shouldn't, Al," I say, regretfully. "I'm already way behind schedule."

"Well, it's just a thought. Some of my college friends are planning on having a few drinks later, and I'd love you to meet them; that's all."

A little voice of doubt begins to whisper in my mind. Am I ready for Al's circle of friends? What if they are all like Orla? Will I feel out of place, inferior, excluded?

"Al?" I pause uncertainly. "Can I mull it over?"

"Of course you can. No pressure." He kisses the top of my head reassuringly. "We could always do something else together instead, or meet up some time tomorrow if you prefer? Up to you."

Relieved that I have a choice and these strangers won't be foisted upon me, curiosity strikes. "What are your friends like? Are they…nice?"

"Well, I think so," he replies evenly. "Monty's one of those rare people that gets on with everyone, and Munisa is really sweet; it's impossible not to like her. Eustace is a complete clown and has the most ridiculous laugh in the world; if he can't make you smile, no-one can. Orla you've met already, of course. Then there's Shirley and Fable, who are as thick as thieves. They'll probably spend the whole evening giggling together, but feel free to ignore them - we frequently do."

The way Al talks about his friends with such warmth makes me want to get to know them too. I wrap an arm snugly around his waist.

"Okay. You're on for tonight."