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For the longest time, well, since One More Fight came out, Harrison's been bugging me to read it. Sending me links to sales with it in, telling me to look at this snippet or the next. Hell, he's even offered to send me a copy once or twice, but each time, I ignore it. Even Sophia kept telling me I should read it; once or twice, I would find her dog-eared copy by my side of the bed, or on my pillow. That's without the constant bombardment from social media to read it, or the random messages from people who know Fletcher and me asking if it's about me and constant shit like that.

Regardless of anything, no one ever understood how much I even dreaded the thought of reading it. Not just because of the plot and how wrong Fletcher had it. It's never just been about the anger, though it may seem like it. 

One reason was that I know how amazing Fletcher is at writing. He's amazing; so vivid in detailing and effortless in how he writes a character's voice. I knew even before looking it up that Fletcher would have written about the London terror incident. He wouldn't have held back, and though he never told me in detail what happened that night, I could imagine.

I sat through those nights with him when he refused to sleep, bone-tired but unable to close his eyes for fear of seeing it again. I've touched the scars on his chest countless times from where he was hurt. There's been so many tears, so many panic attacks, so many times I've had to use a kitchen knife while he's not in the room. Hell, I read some poems he wrote while recovering... and I know those moments will be in that book.

Most of the reason I refuse to read the book is because of how he's written me, yes, but the other reason – the one I don't talk about – is actually because I'm scared. Scared of how detailed he's gone of that night, and scared of how he's framed both himself and me in the aftermath.

But he's telling me now that he wrote the book for me so he could essentially say how sorry he is for how he acted, and how we could, in fact, mature and be better, and maybe one day even make like our counterparts in the book and find our way back to each other? Is he saying he wants me back – or did when he wrote the thing? – I'm not sure. That doesn't even matter right now. What does matter is that he's essentially saying sorry. That's what I've picked up from his speech just now, anyway. Maybe I'm way off, but the tears and passion that roll from him right now say it all. To me, anyway.

What doesn't make sense, though, is why he would exaggerate it and make me the bad guy who cheated first and the antagonist. If he still loved me and wanted to apologise or any of that, why would he do that?

Well, I do know the answer to that. Back when Fletcher and I first got to know each other and did the presentation, we talked for ages about writing what we know. I used to do it, when I wrote, whether it was characters who were bisexual or characters whose other half ended up moving abroad. Fletcher talked about how authors always do it because it's easier, and also writing helps them go through shit, a bit like therapy.

Was Fletcher writing me as the bad guy to both work through his own shit but exaggerate it for his readers? It would make sense, but it still hurts. It's obvious the character is me, both Harrison and Sophia agreed when I told them such.

The first time I read about what he wrote about, I remembered the stab of the truth, twisting in my heart. Despite how messy our love ended, I thought he would always have the integrity to not do that. But then I read his damned Wikipedia page and realised what he'd done. 

It was almost as bad as cheating on me because, to the public, I sound like a fucking bitch, right? The worst person on earth: who cheats on their poor boyfriend who went through the London Terror Attack and got stabbed? Who would betray their poor boyfriend who has PTSD and depression? Only the worst person, right? That's who he painted me out to be, and I almost wish he'd just cheated again.

Or maybe in the back of my mind, I always just wished I'd never had that threesome because we could've got through it all and become better together. That's clearly what he was implying he wanted. Fletcher clearly wanted me to read the book, or at least know the ending. He wrote it for me.

Why am I the worst person to ever grace this earth? Why couldn't I just be normal? I'm so fucking stupid. Every single time I have something good, I fuck it up. Even though Fletcher cheated, I didn't have to make it worse. Then I made it worse again and again until it got to the stage where I don't even want to remember.

Then Sophia. Well, to be fair, I didn't fuck that one up. But she was stolen from me. Now I'm just fucking everything up again. Somehow, I'm sure I'll fuck this up. It's what I do. Adelaide Barnes: the royal fucker.

If that guy out there is Sam Ward – I'm pretty certain it is – then I'm fucked. Yet again, my history will come back to haunt me, my mistakes on show like we're in a museum, and everyone will just hate me.

Fletcher will just wish that book was never written. He'll take back everything he said out there about still loving me.

I told Sophia and Harrison about everything I did, and both of them just loved me through it. 'We all make mistakes, Sunshine,' Harrison had said. 'Shit decisions get made in life, Ada, and we just have to move forward and forgive ourselves. You were hurting and just made a bunch of stupid decisions. It happens. What matters now is that you live with those mistakes and forgive,' Sophia told me.

Neither of them were wrong. Even now, though I hate myself for it, I did those things, as did Fletcher, and we both have to move forward with our lives. Well, the anger has definitely lessened after listening to him, maybe. I'm still hurting, and I know he will be too.

Especially if Sam reveals the shit. Which, if it is him leading this shit, I know he will. I don't understand why a bank robbery, though. Was he expecting us in here? Is it just a coincidence?

Fletcher mentioned the last time he spoke to Sam was straight after the threesome; the three of us used to be close when Fletch and I were together, but after everything, I don't blame Fletcher for not having anything to do with him. It'll be even worse after this.

I wonder what the fuck led to Sam doing something this drastic. Is it for Fletcher? For me? For money? All of the above? That's if it is him, of course.

Their mum, Katrina, will fume if it's Sam that did this. Poor woman.

When I think back to those days after the terror incident and what Fletcher just said about us being kids, he's not wrong. We were so young, just twenty, and had our whole lives ahead of us. Still do. He went through something no one, not even someone with more years on them, should ever have to go through. And we had to navigate that by ourselves. Well, we had his mum and Sam with us to an extent, but Fletcher would've felt so alone, and I helped him cope day-to-day, we had to navigate this weird, awful, horrific set of circumstances with little help.

We should've still been out partying, celebrating finishing our degrees, finding jobs, celebrating life together instead. We were twenty, fresh out of our teens and having to deal with the idea of him being stabbed, and seeing people die en masse, and I was propping him up. I wouldn't wish that experience on someone in their thirties, forties, or fifties, but we were kids.

Kids tantrum, throw a hissy fit and cry when they're hurt, right? They don't know any better, and it's a natural instinct. If they cry, they get attention and their family hugs them and comforts them. That's essentially what Fletcher was doing, except he was a little older than a small child, so he had more options to deal with his pain, so he did. I dealt with my anger the only way my brain knew how: revenge. My body. His brother. I was just a kid, dealing with these adult problems, so I acted out.

How would I deal with it now? Talk it out, cry maybe, but communicate. Counselling. Not sleeping around.

Fletcher dealt with the ongoing feelings by doing what he did best: writing. I just fled and continued fucking up until I found Sophia, who made me realise I needed to grow the fuck up.

When we were living together, Fletcher used to go on about clichés and how they were that for a reason: the old friends-to-lovers tropes or arranged marriages, fairy tales and whatever, how they were so overused, but they were still popular. People love them and lap them up because they have a formula. They were real to an extent, and people love seeing the different ways creators of any media can twist it, and make it new, but the fundamentals of something stay the same. People like familiar and trustworthy things. Stray too far and you'll kill it.

Fletcher says the couple get back together in the end because they're forced to face each other and their issues in an elevator. The old trope of being stuck together and forced to do the very thing you should've done in the first place: talk.

It's the very thing Fletcher and I needed to do, but never did. We're a walking fucking cliché and a half. Always were and always will be, I suppose. But this story doesn't have a happy ending, not when that arsehole is found out to be Sam fucking Ward. So much for letting go and moving forward. I'm the antagonist: my shit will always come back and make things worse because Fletcher is the protagonist. I'm the one who makes his life worse and yet again, he'll go through the shit he doesn't deserve to come back out stronger while I get weaker.

Life just isn't fair, even if you've worked on those mistakes. Just when I think I can't sink any further, here comes history to bite me on the arse and send me to the rock bottom. Maybe one day I'll finally redeem myself. I just hope this sinkhole will finally be my bottom and from here, the only way can be up. 

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