It was an idyllic two weeks. Truly. Not particularly on the physical side of things*, oddly enough, but emotionally I was where I'd spent a year wishing to be. However, it was a temporary accommodation, not a permanent homecoming. Towards the end of the visit the three of us were entwined on the futon; we had the 'what does it all mean?' conversation. Mr best friend was adamant - it meant nothing more or less than what it was. He was right, but I at least didn't want to think of that.
*I'm not going to bother recounting the ins and outs, because it hardly matters, but if we were Neapolitan ice cream, we were a tub with no chocolate or strawberry sections, we were vanilla to the core. For me, possibly the first and last time that applied.
And then I came back to the UK. And my heart, it was in pieces.