David and I met when we were 17 years old, set up by mutual friends. We were their two single friends who actively wanted to meet someone, and I suppose we made sense. We got on instantly and David quickly became my safe place in the chaotic world that is teenage-hood. We told each other everything – we still do – and we went through a lot together: my A-levels and his college diploma, our art foundation diplomas, the illness and passing of my grandpa, his father’s new marriage, the illness and passing of Tom, my stepdad. We travelled to Bali and Sri Lanka, and we lived together for most of our relationship. He emotionally supported me through all my unpaid jobs during university, cooking me dinner when I rolled in at midnight after the particularly challenging Fashion Week internships, and he listened to me vent all the time. But while we grew up together, we also grew out of love together. Before we knew it, we were no longer lovers but just the best of friends. We bickered like siblings and no matter how much we tried, that spark that ignites romantic relationships and, more importantly, keeps them going, had completely gone.