I sent you my final postcard today – you’ve obviously not stumbled across this place yet, so I decided to give you a bit of a push. If it works, I suppose one day you'll be reading this, so 'hello', I'm glad you found me. If it doesn't, then who knows, it might not be the last postcard after all. I don't think I can stay out of touch, even if it is one-sided.

I didn’t think it would be so hard, sending that final postcard. It’s only a piece of paper, isn’t it? Nothing more than a rectangle of card. But they were my lifeline, something tangible which connected us. Something from my hand finding its way to yours.

I went to a small little café to write it, the sort of café I’d imagined we’d sit in if we ever did The Grand Tour. I indulged in a little people watching, as I’m often fond of doing, but a long time ago I realised that I’m not really watching, I’m searching the crowds for a glimpse of a familiar face. For you. My heart aches every time I’m fooled into thinking I have spotted you, and as my hopes are inevitably dashed I promise myself that this will be the last time I look for you, but it never is. You’re the ghost of my past that I cannot exorcise, the one ray of hope that my stubborn heart refuses to let go of.

I wonder if the postcards have meant as much to you as they have to me. I think sometimes that they have been the only thing keeping me going. I like to imagine your face as you read the few words I’ve scribbled down. In my mind you are always smiling but I often worry if sending them might cause you more heartache than happiness. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I decided to write this instead of sending the postcards? Or maybe I’m tired of sitting in cafés and never finding you amongst the crowd?

The truth is, I don’t know. It’s very hard to be honest with yourself when you don’t know who you are anymore. Simple questions become hard to answer; am I happy? The person I am now probably is, or probably should be…but am I her, can I be happy wearing someone else’s life, and someone else’s feelings? I suppose I want answers, I always have done, only now I want answers for myself, about what I should do now, where my life is heading and if you’ll ever be in it again.

If you’re reading, Harry, let me know.