We fell in love on the coldest day November had ever seen. It was the most cliché of stories. The most predictable of events, about as banal as love gets. It was one of those stories, one of those oh so common love stories. His stare pierced into my soul and if love had a smell I could just about feel it fill my lungs. I did warn you, cliché.
I stared back, of course I did. We were falling in love it would be rude of me not to participate. After years of friendship it had come to this. We had been reduced to a scene straight out of a terrible mills and boon adaptation. I’d assumed love would occur in the most dramatic of ways that it would take me by surprise. I thought it would manifest itself much like an earthquake or a terrible explosion. Instead love came as a soft knock. Moved to tears I accepted the stretched hand. How long we had been standing on that bridge I would never know, how long I had loved him? An eternity, an eternity and a day.

Fingers entwined we headed east. Embarking on a journey so unexpected I gripped his hand tighter. I’d killed her; he would forgive me though wouldn’t he? It is the most widely accepted notion that love is kind is it not? That to love someone is to love them to the point of incurable madness.

With steely resolve I decided to banish the thoughts. The patter of small feet rang in my ears. I had never heard them before but I knew what they sounded like. Baby steps that would never be heard. I had killed her.