Perched on the end of my bed, I typed out an angry text message to my boyfriend.
You better answer the phone, I typed frantically.
It was April 2008, I was 17, and in a heated argument with my then fella, John*, 21.
I was getting ready for bed in the home I shared with my mum and dad, Jill* and Darren*, now both 60, in Durham, when the disagreement erupted.
The row was about something silly and insignificant, but at the time, it felt like the end of the world.
We’d got together when I was 15, and at five years older than me, I was head over heels for John.
Still, he sometimes treated me like a child, which made me so angry.
I dialled his number, ready…
