In the early hours of Saturday, when a dozen unopened bottles and as many friends were still in my apartment, The Painter asked if I was having a good birthday?

I am, I said.

Good, he smiled.

Know what would make it even better?

What?

If you don’t leave tonight.

You want me to stay?

I want you to stay.

Then I will do that.

For the first time since meeting him in October, The Painter stayed over.

For the first time in 716 days, I slept on ‘my’ side of the bed.

The right side.

Felt right again.

I awoke late to the tap-tap-tap of a knock from somewhere.

And beside a sleeping man.

A sleeping man who was not snoring.

I couldn’t place the direction from whence the knock came.

But this wasn’t my immediate concern.

The lack of sound coming from the man next to me was.

He took one of my sleeping pills last night.

A few of them, actually.

Oh God.

What if—

It can’t happen twice in a girl’s lifetime, right?

In slow motion, I reach for his arm.

Touch his not ice-cold skin.

Place my palm in front of his mouth.

And feel the warm breath of a man in deep sleep.

From which he will wake.

I exhale.

Return to my side of the bed.

The knocking has now ceased.

So has my panic.

Yes, I’m still a haunted girl.

Will be for a while.

But the spell?

Of the right side of the bed?

Seven-hundred and sixteen days later, it’s officially broken.