And this is what happened with Dave. I'm not sure what made me think that things would be any different between us - I've only become more independant and he's still floating up and down in his manic-depressive life. Travel has improved his mind immensely, but within he still lacks passion, drive in life.

"Shit, I really haven't changed at all, have I?"

I thought that I could close my eyes to this, focus on all the wonderful things about him, and fall back in love with him instead of just loving him. But I can't.

It was promising. Pigeons scattered into the ironwork above us in Charing Cross. He clasped a necklace behind my neck - a necklace of wood and shells from Barbados. We lay in the long grass in Hyde Park, mesmerized by the play of the light in the green chestnut canopy above.

"God, Shannon, I love you still so much."

Later, on the secret roof of the hostel, I see that ubiquitous shooting star that has followed me around the Earth - even through the London smog. Beyond the rooftops is a crescent of the London Eye, and it is Us condensed perfectly into the blueish glowing wheel. Up and down, around, spinning, unable to take off and soar. Everything spread below us, but then when our feet touch the ground again we are at once small in the world. Knowing that remaining on the wheel means an eternity of dizzy, sickening revolutions.

He knows it too. He didn't try to stop me when I left to come up here to Edinburgh, away from him. He lit a cigarette as I walked away and I know that means he has given up on us too.