People fall in love in mysterious ways. I believe it was Ed Sheeran who originally said that, but I'm definitely inclined to agree.

I liken it to getting into an outdoor pool on a holiday abroad, usually when it's not quite yet peak season. When the pool is still cold and takes a while to warm up in the sun.

Some people might jump straight in, cannonball style. Knowing it's going to be cold, but keen to get it over with, to get on to the next stage. These folk will probably get back out repeatedly, and then cannonball in again. The metaphor here, of course, is that they fall in love quickly, and often.

Others don't get in the pool at all. Or simply dangle their feet.

Me, I edge my way in slowly. Wince tentatively as each part of my body is embraced by the cold, as I wade into deeper water. Finally I reach that point where I have to completely submerge myself. I psych myself up, I let the cold water envelop me . . . And then I'm happy to stay in that pool all day long, as it warms up around me.

In other words, I try to protect my heart at the very beginning. I'm cautious, not quite trusting. But I'm already falling, already know I'm heading for the deeper water. Very soon I'm all in. And I don't want to get back out.

And that's how it felt when me and Declan got together.

Admittedly, I was already a bit wary thanks to him clearly being a bit of a Bad Boy; and then there was the the whole musician angle too, obviously. But I couldn't deny the heat between us; didn't doubt there were feelings in the way he looked at me, even before that very first kiss. I'd actually go as far as to say he was more into me than I was into him. At first, anyway.

But then, as I did discover when we went to Ibiza together just a few months later, he actually was a classic "cannonballer". As I gingerly eased my way in to the literal swimming pool, he just jumped straight in, sending up a massive splash of water that soaked me, and then clambered straight back out to have another go.

Maybe that should have been my first warning sign. But I couldn't really base my love life on a metaphor I'd devised myself . . . could I?

Especially as I was already totally invested by that stage in our relationship.

Anyway, even before I managed to completely let myself relax and let go with him, everything between us was amazing. It took less than three weeks from our first meeting for him to ask me, almost shyly, if I'd be his girlfriend. I was delighted to say yes; I'd been scared to check on our status, even though all the signs were showing we were very much already in a relationship. I'd been burned before though, and therefore wary of making assumptions.

It also turned out that the musician thing wasn't really the problem I'd anticipated it might be, at least not when it came to Dec. Obviously, the wedding band gig had been a bit of a one-off; although he did occasionally still help out if they were stuck. Generally though, he performed solo at low-key gigs in very small venues, with only his voice and guitar to support him.

Declan's music, surprisingly, tended towards softer ballads: beautifully written tunes about love and heartbreak. He was a pretty decent song-writer, had a dreamy voice, and great stage presence. He also had a loyal following of - mostly female - fans, and it was clear that he was immensely popular with them . . . But whenever I went to one of his shows, he only had eyes for me.

He even started name-checking me before he launched into certain songs, making it very clear to the audience that he was taken. "I wrote this next song about meeting the girl of my dreams on the boat to Dunoon," he announced on one particular occasion, plucking lightly at his guitar before he started to play a new track. He blew me a kiss. "This one's for you, Abby."

He'd called it "Ferry Girl". I guess it wasn't the most original of titles, but it was the thought that counted. And it was actually a gorgeous song that rang with sincerity.

I was absolutely smitten by that point. Even though I could see several pairs of jealous eyes drawing me daggers. My happiness was like an invisible shield though, deflecting the envy.

I'm not really sure when things started to go wrong. For him, anyway. Like I said before, I was pretty much blindsided when he suggested the break. It really did come out of nowhere for me.

Looking back with my hindsight goggles firmly in place though, there was a point around last Christmas, seven months or so into our relationship, where he seemed a bit . . . off. My office had needed a couple of holiday temps, just for a bit of fact-checking and data input - we deal with restaurant/hotel booking as well as voucher deals, so there was a lot of extra business in the run up to the 25th December. And Declan needed some extra money to buy presents - he wasn't exactly making a great amount of money from his music - so I suggested him for one of the roles.

It was only two weeks worth of work, but Dec was a massive hit in the office. Probably because he was such a distracting piece of eye candy. He'd charmed the metaphorical knickers off everyone by approximately 10am on his first day.

It was weird though - he seemed to enjoy the attention more in the office than he did at his gigs! Maybe he was just more used to that particular setting, or was more occupied with his craft when he was playing a show. The other girls would shamelessly flirt with him, right in front of me, and he ate their attentiveness up, as if it was somehow charging up his charisma battery.

During that fortnight, he'd seemed a little distracted, but I'd just put that down to him probably being a bit overwhelmed. Juggling a 9-5 office gig with actual gigs at night must have been pretty knackering. But after he asked for the break a few months later, the weirdness in December was the only thread I could find to pick at in what had otherwise seemed a great relationship.

So during our break, I had kept a close, distrustful eye on my colleagues . . . Just in case I noticed anything that seemed not quite right. But it seemed I was either missing something, or completely barking up the wrong tree.

Maybe I'll never really know the reason for the break. Or the break-up. But, as I put my phone up to my ear now, and listen to Declan's drunken, miserable monologue again, I wonder once again if there's still hope for us. If maybe the finality of the break-up itself has now actually forced him to realise he's actually not ready to let me go.

Yep, Little Miss Pesky Optimist has returned from her long weekend away - she's refreshed, shiny like a new penny, and full of hopes and dreams for a Declan-filled future. "Phone him back!" She's pleading with me. "Everything's going to be perfect now."

Wow, she's annoying.

Plus there's absolutely no way Dec is going to be awake right now. Not if he was up late last night.

So, folks, what do you think is going to happen now? You must all have your theories. Yours will probably be more accurate than my expectations are at this point, that's for sure. Because Pesky Optimist still won't fuck off, and she's starting to rub off on me once again.

Despite this, I don't message Declan, or try to call him. And ultimately I'm glad.

Because the follow-up text message from him arrives mid-morning.

Abby. I'm so sorry about the voicemail I left you last night. I was in a weird place mentally. Deep down, I know we're doing the right thing here - I just miss you sometimes. I know I'm trying to give you space, but if you ever just want to meet up as friends, I'd be up for that. D xx

Nah.

Even I know what that means. I'm slightly less naive than I was a week ago. We are not going down the ex-sex road again. I've barely recovered from the last trip.

I have to admit that even I'm pissed with Declan now. Pesky Optimist has re-packed her overnight bag, and is considering giving up completely on me. At this point, I'm ready to let her go without any argument. The only thing I want to fight right now is Declan. I want to punch him square in the nose. Possibly follow that up with a swift roundhouse kick to his throat.

Instead, for now, I'll settle for an angry cry in the office toilet . . .