When a love story goes wrong, the whole truth is the death of everything. My problem is that I don't know the truth anymore. I do know I was head over heels in love. I know that I was in Europe on a romantic holiday with the man of my dreams. I also know, just from looking in the mirror, that something terrible happened to me. Something horrific.
Byron and I had been living together for almost two years. With Byron's support I'd started No Saints, an ethical shoe company, we'd bought a home and had begun talking about marriage and children. My mum, back home in Brazil where I was born, was waiting for us to announce our engagement. I had a strong feeling something life-changing was going to happen in Europe.
We strolled through London's fairytale laneways and the historic gardens in spring, walked hand-in-hand by the Art Nouveau bridges and palaces in Budapest and swam in the Adriatic beneath the lighthouse and ramparts of Dubrovnik's ancient walled city. It was heaven, but the best was yet to come.
We squeezed in a stopover in Barcelona, my favourite city in the world. Sun-kissed cobblestone streets and tiled footpaths, stunning architecture, incredible museums, art everywhere, music everywhere and delicious local cuisine. Byron knew it was a fantasy of mine to live there one day.
Up early the next morning, we set out for a vegan cafe in the Gothic Quarter, a kilometre from our hotel. We got a little lost, and finally popped out on Via Laietana. Our destination was just minutes away, but we never made it.
Unbeknownst to Byron and I, an ugly fight had broken out down by the waterfront. The police had been called and a squad car was already racing to the scene. No siren, just flashing lights, all but invisible in the streaming sunshine.
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