“A heart attack, what a welcome home gift!”

“Oh, how I’ve missed your sarcasm,” Devi said, winking.

Amber opened her mouth to speak, but then her gaze caught on something behind me. “Over here,” she called, smiling.

I turned around, and there you were. Petite, dark-haired, in a crisp blue shirt and jeans, with a slightly shuffling walk, and those eyes that pointed away from the world. When you finally lifted them to meet mine, that’s when I saw you, truly, for the first time.

Truly, because your eyes said more than most people’s. They gave away the things you didn’t want them to know. As I got to know you better, I learned the power of your poker face, the way it had fooled people into thinking you were some aloof posh girl, disinterested in and detached from Essex-schoolgirl drama. You almost got away with it -- you would have -- if not for those eyes.

“Oi, oi!” yelled Lucy, bounding up to Amber and fist-bumping Devi. She was even more distinctive than in the picture, her hair a vibrant white-blond that seemed to match the power of her presence. She was all confidence: strong, athletic, loud. Even in the way she held herself, so upright that she practically bounced as she walked.

I was slightly startled by the contrast, especially when you lifted a hand in a delicate wave and said, in a small, timid voice, “Hi. I’m Ava.”

But there was no time for my surprise to linger. I was being introduced, or so I thought.

“This is Iris,” Devi said, turning to me. “Listen, we’ve not shut up about you, so they basically know everything, and the next train’s about to leave. Let’s save the small talk for the Central Line?”

“And here I was hoping you’d finally say something nice about me,” I teased. “Guess it’ll have to wait for my birthday. But yeah, let’s go. Nice to meet you both, genuinely.”

Lucy clapped me on the shoulder and immediately launched into a story about her nightly MSN rendezvous with a fit Dutch guy she’d met on Chat Roulette. I let her talk as we half-ran toward the train and then plonked ourselves down into the seats. But my lack of equivalent online romance drama must have bored her, because as soon as she’d finished telling me about her new beau inviting her on a coffee shop date in Amsterdam, she jumped up and abandoned me for Amber.

You’d been sitting beside her, and now there was an empty space. Tentatively, you slid into it, half-smiling, with just a whiff of a raised eyebrow.

“I promise my chat’s usually better than that,” I said. “I’m just not an internet-romance kind of gal. One minute, they’re professing their love; the next, they’re sending dick pics. Am I right?”

You giggled, then shifted awkwardly. “I wouldn’t know, I’m not an anyone-romance kind of girl. But given what I’ve seen over people’s shoulders in form, I’m inclined to believe you.”

I smiled. “I wouldn’t really know either, not from personal experience anyway. But I do have three brothers, which has given me many years of anthropological insight into the teenage male psyche.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, warmer now. “Please do enlighten me, Professor.”

“Well, it’s all about the phallus, isn’t it?”

You raised your eyebrows. “Clever clogs. You’re lucky I skimmed Freud before not choosing psychology.”

“Ah, left-brain thinker,” I said. “Let me guess, you’re one of those freakishly clever people who love maths, science, and more maths?”

You looked impressed. “Touché. Except you forgot history.”

“Well, obviously,” I said. “No point learning thermodynamics unless you know who weaponised them.”

And on we went. By the time we were closing in on Leicester Square, I’d learned all about your love for The Inbetweeners -- “just because I speak nicely doesn’t mean I’m not a sucker for potty mouth” -- and that you and your sister, Sophie, had your own private jokes.

“Honestly, we’re utter weirdos.”

“Weird is underrated,” I replied.

Then you mentioned your mum. “We’re always clashing over stupid things. I know she means well. I just wish she could be on my side sometimes. I guess we’re just really different.”

“It sounds like she’s trying to help but doesn’t know how to talk to you,” I said too quickly, too honestly.

Suddenly, your face hardened. You crossed your arms, turned your face, and it felt like you’d gone from being right beside me to a million miles away.

“Well, you really are a psychologist, aren’t you?”

You’d tried to carry it off as a joke, but I knew I’d said the wrong thing and instantly felt panic.

“Listen, I’m so sorry,” I said, rounding in my seat to face you more directly. “Just forget what I said. I was trying to be helpful, but you didn’t ask for my opinion, and I shouldn’t have given it.”

You met my gaze, and everything softened again. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. My mum’s just ... a touchy subject. Let’s drop it.”

“Of course,” I said, relieved. “Let’s go back to other TV shows that you love and are completely off-brand for your vibe.”

You laughed, then grew serious. “I hope I haven’t spoiled this. I don’t make friends easily, and I really have loved talking to you.”

“Honestly, it’s all good. It was my fault for having a big, stupid mouth. They’re clearly rubbing off on me,” I said, gesturing to Devi and Amber, who were crowded around Lucy’s phone, debating whether her Dutch pen pal had a three- or a six-pack.

You smiled and shook your head. “Your mouth’s just fine. But okay, deal.”

That was the first time I felt the feeling in my chest: like someone had hit fast-forward on my heartbeat, then skipped a couple of tracks, like my lungs weren’t big enough, like I’d suddenly run out of air.