It's been three months. Three months since you were sat at home while I was on tour and a video was shared online that would break us. Three months since I drunkenly kissed someone who wasn't you.

I was an idiot. A drunken fool, though I know that's no excuse. I done what I done and I can't go back and fix it.

The weeks in between Tokyo and starting the European leg of the tour was spent calling, texting, begging you to forgive me. You didn't answer at first, but I left voicemails and text messages, apologising, promising it meant nothing, that it was the biggest mistake of my life. Eventually you answered my call one day and we you agreed to come over for coffee, away from the prying eyes of the media and fans. I swore up and down that it wouldn't happen again, that it meant nothing. You said I'd 'destroyed something that meant everything for something worthless'. Said I threw away any chance of a future together because you couldn't trust that this was the only time it's happened, only that it was the only time that I got caught out.

And honestly? I don't blame you for thinking that way. It was the first and only time it'd ever happened, but I'd shattered that trust and I couldn't piece it back together with an apology and a bouquet of flowers.

But fuck, I miss you. I've regreted it since the second it happened.

I've just finished my third show at Wembley. I'm good at faking that things are fine, preforming like nothing is wrong, like I'm not missing part of me, like I don't think of you with every lyric. I sit on the couch in my dressing room, looking through the album of photos I have of us. That sparkle in your eyes, the smile on your face. That photo I took of you in Italy at the beginning of the year when you'd run into the villa after we'd gone swimming and you'd gone skidding across the floor, laying on your back hair fanned out around you like a halo, crying with laughter.

Nothing like the look on your face when you left. That twinkle in your eyes, gone, replaced with something I can only describe as devastation. I've never hated myself more.

I pull up our last messages, the pleading for another chance all left on delivered.

Fuck it.

I press call, hold the phone to my ear, and pray to whatever god there is that you answer.