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“We look like we’re in a Gap advert,” I say, smiling at MindReader as he pulls his wooly hat off.

He laughs. “Or an Accessorise one,” he says, eyeing my stripey hat and mittens. “Or Jane Norman. O’Neill.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m an advert for being sucked into named brands.”

“Exactly,” he says, kissing me and heading across the College of Law foyer to his class. I watch his back retreat, lost in thought.

“Hey,” L says, smiling at me. “Well!” she says, her smile widening even further. “Have you told him yet?”

“No,” I say, jolted, “not yet.”

L’s eyes twinkle. “It’s so exciting.”

“I almost told him last night,” I say.

“You won’t last,” she says. “Bet you tell him out tonight.”

“I’ve lasted 24 hours,” I say. “Bit worried what he’ll say actually.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “He’ll love you for it.”

I click idly on the hyperlink with my morning coffee.

And there it is. Three shorts paragraphs. Compliments and insights into things I didn’t even know he thought about.

MindReader writes differently to me. He does not get up in the middle of the night, and, hunched over the computer, produce frenzied blogs only to be filed away in Word documents. His writing is more measured, thoughtful, with careful themes running together.

He does not update his blog often. It is, he says, when he gets a spare moment. I think secretly he is one of those people who thinks online journal is an oxymoron. He is, naturally, a storyteller, but he is best listened to, a drink in one hand whilst the other wildly gesticulates.

I read eagerly, blushing at the detail of it. It was posted over a week ago, I notice, smirking. MindReader has not mentioned it, knowing I would read it someday and having the self restraint to let me discover it privately.

It is not just that it is about me – us – or that it is well-constructed, or even that I suspect he writes better than me. It is in the faults: he can’t spell embodies. His sentences are run on and too often do not make sense.

This is where the beauty is: he sidesteps the language and structure that constrain, and conveys a more poignant meaning through almost-nonsense, ramblings where your eyes glaze over and the startling, sudden metaphors jump out at you.

And no – I won’t post the link .

We are in the cinema. Atonement, by the way.

The foil rustles against my fingers as I pull the praline chocolate out of its wrapper.

MindReader raises his eyebrows, interested.

“The woman in the advert was beautiful,” I whisper as it glints in the dim lights. “I wanted her hair.”

“Is that why you bought it?” he says, as I run my fingers along the bar, trying to find a way in.

“Yes,” I say, scratching at the foil, tearing a small corner off with my teeth.

MindReader smirks at me.

“Did she have fingernails, too?”

We are in Tesco. This is a luxury and means we are not only seeing each other for one day a week. Actually, we are on the second storey of Tesco, which is slightly surreal.

“Please choose some ingredients for me to make something tonight,” I say.

“Like what?” MindReader says, raising an eyebrow.

“Ooh ooh, like that thing you made the other night. With the pesto and tomatoes.”

“A toasted sandwich?” he says, smirking.

I grab some crisps on impulse and shove them into the basket. I stand for a while, deliberating on the 2 for £2 offer, my head tilted to one side.

“You are very cute,” MindReader’s voice says in my ear, an arm encircling my waist.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching for another packet.

Except I don’t reach for it. I push it off.

I hear the crisps land.

MindReader grins widely as my eyes widen in panic at him.

I peer over the edge.

The crisps have landed on the escalator!

I walk around and watch them come up, and they are delivered neatly into my hands.

I stand, triumphant, and MindReader is crying with laughter.