"There's something I'd like to discuss with you before I go away."
Al's words have been playing on my mind for two months now, ever since we spent my birthday together in London, and the anticipation has been killing me.
We're meeting up in London again tomorrow and I can barely contain my excitement at seeing him again, but my heart is breaking too. Peru is fast approaching, ready to whisk him away from me for a whole year. After tomorrow, he'll be temporarily lost to the other side of the world.
But not before he satisfies my curiosity, I hope.
What is he going to reveal? Is he the heir to a throne, or a celebrity's child, or the son of a billionaire couple? Does he want to take our relationship to the next step and make it something more permanent? Has he finally told his family and - yikes - they are clamouring to meet me?
I've started to convince myself that maybe Al Potter is actually a pseudonym, because there's next to nothing on the internet about him. All I've managed to unearth about any notable Potter family in Britain, is a short article posted on some ridiculous conspiracy website that's trying to prove the existence of witchcraft. Potter isn't an uncommon name in the UK. Perhaps that's why his family have chosen it, to blend in with us mere proles? Maybe his real surname is a double-barrelled derivative of Potter?
There are things I know for definite about Al. One; he's wealthy. There's no way he could splash out hundreds of pounds on my birthday or afford a Trinity May Ball ticket otherwise. Two; he's keeping me a secret from his family for a reason. Being aristocrats or royalty or Hollywood celebs, maybe they have their own ideas about who he should be dating, or perhaps he's protecting me from the gutter press. Quite right too - I'm a million miles away from being 'Daily Express' or 'Hello' ready. Three; he wants to tell me something important. I've already thought this one through so many times and I'm still no closer to settling on an answer.
I've not seen Al since he stopped visiting Sheffield regularly, almost three weeks ago to the day, and haven't heard from him for nearly forty-eight hours, which is an unusually long bout of silence in our relationship. I know he's been super busy with work, which is why he's remained in London for most of this month, but he usually finds a few minutes to ring or reply to my texts. I'm positive he's not ghosting me, though, and there'll be a good reason behind his sudden absence. I trust him implicitly, after all. I'm going to have to, if we're to maintain any hope of keeping a relationship alive for an entire year, when the Atlantic ocean, three-quarters of a continent, six time zones, and an equatorial line will be separating us.
It's over six months since Al and I started dating. More than six amazing months where, at times, it's felt as though I'm living someone else's reality as it's been way better than anything my wildest dreams could have come up with.
I know I might not see Al for almost a year after tomorrow, but I'm trying not to dwell on that fact, even though every bit of me aches with the pain of imminent parting. The selfish side of me desperately wants him to stay; why should I have to share him with a whole South American country, for fuck's sake? Yet I know I must let him go. If he comes back, he's mine; if he doesn't, then he never was. He'll come back, right? Of course he will; I refuse to consider that he won't.
Every bit of tomorrow's time is to be cherished, and I'm not going to waste a single moment of it.
It's just gone half-past nine and I've already changed into my pyjamas for an early night, when my phone buzzes with the sound of a text arriving. I rush to read it.
It's from Al. Thank fuck for that! I can't deny I was getting a smidgeon worried by his lack of communication.
Al: "Hi Sunny, sorry for a sudden change of plan, but could we meet in King's Cross station at 9am instead of Hyde Park at 11am?"
Delighted at the thought of spending two more hours together than originally planned, I immediately type a reply.
"Sure Al, of course. Looking forward to seeing you and hearing what you want to reveal! Been waiting for ages and I'm so excited! Xxx"
Al: "Oh me too. I simply cannot wait to tell you!"
He's going to finally utter those three words or discuss taking our relationship to the next stage, I'm almost sure of it. And if he doesn't say those three words first, then I will.
Because I do.
Love him, that is.
With every fibre of my being.
Put it this way; if this isn't love, then I don't know what is.
My heart is bursting with affection for this boy. Before I know it, I'm diving into an elaborate fantasy involving me and Al, roses and diamonds and a bent knee, a scandalous elopement, and a gloriously long holiday to goodness knows where. We're racing through foreign airports wearing oversized sunglasses, dodging paparazzi, journeying in blacked out limousines and private jets to far-flung secret destinations; all the while laughing and having the absolute time of our lives.
My Mum will go nuts.
I'm glad I decided to return to Cambridge a few days ago; getting to London for nine o'clock in the morning from Rotherham would have been extremely tricky. I wonder if Al's got some crazy surprise up his sleeve for these extra two hours? I can't wait to find out what it is. He's so thoughtful, and I'm incredibly lucky that our paths ever crossed.
I drift off to sleep eventually, dreaming of all the things we could do tomorrow. I want to make it a day to remember.
Unsurprisingly, I wake pretty early in the morning. Mellow September rays seep through my curtains and illuminate my bedroom, enticing me to get up. I'm far too excited to stay in bed anyway, but I'm also feeling that tinge of sadness. Seeing Al for the final time before he departs on a year-long adventure in Peru is going to be challenging in so many ways.
Two cups of tea and a shower later, I'm having a dilemma over my outfit. Usually, I don't care, but today I'd like to make a bit of an effort. There's not much variety in my wardrobe to choose from. Aside from a light-grey and gold t-shirt for my top half, it's a tussle for the bottoms between skinny jeans, hipster jeans, leggings, or a cord skirt that actually belongs to Gabriela. Once I've finally decided on skinny-fit denims, I have to go through the whole rigmarole again with footwear; boots, low slingback heels, trainers, or pumps. I discount the slingbacks almost immediately; heels and I don't mix particularly well, even if they are only small ones. In the end, the trainers win out as it really is a bit too warm for boots, and my ballet pumps have seen better days.
I throw a light jacket on and lock the door to my room before leaving the house. The low morning sun is still full of summer warmth and the early sky is that particularly hazy shade of blue which usually precedes a hot, clear day. A light breeze whispers through the trees and sends a few leaves fluttering to the pavement.
One of the best features of Cambridge city is its diminutive size; virtually everything is within walking distance. It's a pleasant, straightforward stroll from our student house to the train-line, if you don't mind getting tangled up in masses of commuters who are all fully focused on getting to London as quickly as possible. Which I don't. Nothing, not even self-centred pedestrians, could blight this perfect day.
After acquiring my travel ticket and enduring a 45-minute crammed journey on the train to London King's Cross, I check my watch. It's a quarter to nine, fifteen minutes before Al said he'd be here. He's usually pretty timely and he's already living in London so I'm expecting him soon. There's no excuse for him being late, unless he's moved back home with his family in the South-West, in which case he'll probably be on his way here via the tube from Paddington station. And that could delay him; it's rush-hour, and navigating underground escalators and barriers will be Hell right now.
Anxiously, I suddenly realise Al didn't specify where in King's Cross he suggested we meet. I check my phone to note, with relief, that he's just sent me another message - "I'm in the concourse by Pret a Manger" - and I hurry over to the main body of the station expectantly. My heart feels as though it's turning somersaults of joy as I catch a glimpse of what looks like Al's tousled dark head in the distance, just in front of the sandwich shop.
One more glorious day ahead. It will be incredibly hard to be without him next year, but I'm not going to think about that just yet.
"Al!" I call out his name, too eager to wait any longer.