It was approaching the summer again. The Winter and Spring months had passed quickly as I had kept myself busy and surrounded myself with people, everyone. Yet, for all the time that had gone by, for all the conversations I'd had and all the situations I had found myself in, I could account for little of it. My memory was hazy, I could recall only the tiniest, generally menial bits: the books I had read, the bar I was in when the sun had at last decided to flaunt itself, a documentary on eating disorders in children of which I'd only manage to catch the last fifteen minutes or so. One abiding memory was of my friend on a sunny, Saturday afternoon. Despite soon to be enlisting into the army he had kept his child-like enthusiasm about life although you sensed, in the moments when you caught him lost in his own thoughts, he was as mournfully aware as the rest of us. On this particular occasion we had been to a festival celebrating Portuguese culture. A band was playing at the front of what was a rather large temporary marquee, around the sides of which were stalls selling food and drink, items of clothing and accessories. We had passed by a stall holder who was working hard to sell us her home-made jewellery - I had looked in her direction when she had waved a brass looking necklace in my face - and upon turning to look back in the direction I was walking, a tall, attractive girl walked right by me. Without conscious decision my eyes watched her, needing to take all of her in while they had the opportunity. I was staring until she had disappeared into the crowd of people stumbling to get a better view of the musicians on stage. Upon me losing sight of her - which felt like the end of something brilliant. I remember feeling cold and empty, like I'd lost something important; an opportunity, a part of me - I said out loud, although not loudly, and in considerable awe 'she's...beautiful'. My friend was standing right beside me in close enough proximity to hear what I had said and was watching me watch her. He'd waited patiently for my fixation to pass and when I'd turned to face him he shook his head, smiled a little and lamented 'you fall in love all the time. It's not good for you.' I have thought about this ever since. There seemed in the undercurrents of his words a complete understanding, it was what I had always suspected of him, that he was exceptionally perceptive. In those few seconds he had found me out, caught me in the act without a second thought. The memory of the rest of the night has faded and I have not seen him since.

She stood up abruptly from her chair, majestically and with earth-shattering intent, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, and looked me in the eyes, searching, as if trying to stare a hole right through me. It worked. Her stare cut me open like a laser-sharpened knife dicing an onion to pieces. She eventually began to speak and, although softly, her words were as violent as the person staring back at her. Every verb a blow to the guts; every noun throttling the larynx; every utterance as brutal as the one before it. This was the only fight I knew I would lose. I felt weak, like a new-born calf struggling for balance in a sun-drenched field, and I could feel every bit of the intense heat that poor thing would suffer in the face of the scorching sunshine. I've felt violence. I've experienced pain. Physical pain. But she knew how to really hurt me, without barely touching me with a breath. A solitary confession, barely a sentence, and I was crushed. Defeated. It hurt like Hell. And right then, at that moment, I knew I loved her and more importantly, hitting me like one final revelation in an unwritten diary, I realised I always had.