You're not entirely sure of what woke you up. It might've been your dad's morning alarm, set for 6:45. It might've been the traffic outside.

Or, it might've been the sound of your mum pulling your bedroom door shut in an attempt not to wake you up.

Well, looks like it did the opposite, anyway.

You sigh and turn over, as the events from the previous night came flooding back to you. A lot of the noise is a blur to you, only the sounds of the bathroom tap turning off and the hairdryer turning on grabs your attention.

You're unsure of what time it is -- didn't your mum say something yesterday about catching the 8:17 to Cannon Street? If she did, then she had more time to pack.

And yes, you know she's packing because you can hear the zip of the suitcase tinkling against the actual zip.

"I couldn't... you were sniggering... well, I've had it round here."

You don't hear everything she says, the rest of her speech being cut off by your dad's shaver and you wish for once that he would turn off the God-awful thing.

"Have a nice life."

That, you do hear, and the words cut into you like nothing else ever has. You turn over again, no longer eager to hear their conversation, but desperate to lock it all out. If you had any sense, you would go out there and stop her.

Yeah, right.

And what would that prove? That you were awake? You can just imagine the words spiralling into another out of control argument that you wouldn't know how to apologise for.

Though it might be a bit past apologising now.

How did this happen? You can hear her again, "It sounded quite bad... well someone will have to learn how to do it!"

You pull your bed covers around you closely and wish she'd stop talking like she was leaving for good. Actually, you wish you'd never have opened your mouth in the first place, then none of this would've happened.
But it is happening, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

"We didn't!"

That's your dad's voice, right there. Retalliating, for once. Maybe that's why he's not here, waking you up. Because whenever you're around, things always seem to get worse.

There goes the suitcase again, being zipped shut. You guess that she really was true to her word.

Now that everything has moved downstairs, including the conversation, you don't even bother trying to work out what they're saying to each other. Instead, you just let your mind wander, and it's then that you realise something.

All of this was your fault

Unsurprisingly, the words don't comfort you in any way as they echo through your brain, but it's the harsh truth.

Suddenly, you hear the front door slam, corrupting your train of thought. So that's it? She's left already? You feel yourself breathe a sigh of relief as you see her shoving her suitcase into the back of the car, and locking it with care. Well, at least she's dressed for work.

When she re-enters the house, you can hear the sound of your dog barking downstairs, and you smile to yourself. She wouldn't leave him here, she loves him too much.
That used to be me, you think to yourself, as you strain your ears to hear her final words. That used to be me she loved more than anything.

"I'll be in touch."

Her voice sounded slightly softer than before, but you can still tell that she means it. Then, the door slams once again, and you sit bolt upright, lifting up the curtain and peering out of the corner of the window, watching her slide those white winter gloves onto her hands. All thoughts leave your head as you push open your window quietly to get a better view, the cold winter air wafting in around you.

There. She's gone.

You hear your dad's pounding footsteps on the stairs, and you slide back under your bedsheets, as if for protection. Please, please don't come in here now and tell me what I don't want to hear.

"Goodbye," he says gently, waiting outside your door in anticipation.

"Bye."