The couple upstairs do nothing but argue. Scream. Thump. Scream. Ophelia saw the woman coming up the stairs with a bag from the offlicence. Bottles clunking against each other. She thinks they're both alcoholics. That makes sense to me. If I loved an addict, I'd be an addict too. How else would you cope? How else would you enter their world?

I go to work in a headscarf, wisps of magenta hair peeking from underneath. I've got a data entry gig and I don't want to be noticed. I take up smoking because there's nothing else to do in breaks and it's the only way you get to talk to anyone. An Asian boy with a sweet smile tells me I look cool.

When the Australian girl from downstairs asks us - Are you...? we giggle.

- Sometimes, I say.

- When we're drunk, Ophelia adds.

I'm always tired. I lie on my narrow bed listening to Giovanni's voice on the phone. I love you. I miss you. Come home. A lullaby I'm not allowed to fall asleep to. A siren luring me back to the rocks.

I cry because I know I can't save him before I've saved myself. Before attempting to live.

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