Carrying another box through the door, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
It was September 2017 and my boyfriend Brad, then 21, was moving in with me.
After a year of a long-distance relationship, travelling back and forth to my uni in Huddersfield and his in Salford, we couldn’t wait to be together. At first, I was worried. I lived with nine other people in a shared house, fretted it’d be too crowded.
‘It’s only until we graduate,’ Brad smiled. ‘Then we’ll get our own place.’
So it was decided, we’d live in Huddersfield and Brad would commute for his final year.
‘I can’t wait to spend every day with you,’ I beamed as we unloaded the car.
Brad and I had met in the summer of 2015, while working at McDonald’s.
Just friends at first, our feelings blossomed. I loved his hilarious sense of humour, his family values.
Now we’d moved in together, I wondered what the future held for us. Life was full of possibilities.
But in early 2018, I noticed that Brad was struggling to get out of bed.
It was unlike him. He’d always been so outgoing and sporty. There were strange bruises on his legs, as well.
‘How did you get that?’ I asked, pointing at the purple mark on his thigh.
‘Probably from footie,’ he shrugged.
Brad didn’t seem a bit fazed, so I tried not to worry, either.
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