You’ll lose hours of sleep thinking about his upcoming trial, how he is guilty as sin, how he’s looking at minimum 8 years inside. Your whole body will ache, and will continue to ache even long after sentencing.
You’ll wonder where in the country they’ll put him. You’ll wonder if you’ll bother visiting him. You know that you will. You’ll research how much the train fare will cost from London to various UK prisons. You’ll hope he starts off in Scrubs because it’s nearby.
You’ll buy a new pair of heels for his trial using his credit card because you’re depressed and it’s all his fucking fault anyway, fuck him, the fucking bastard.
You’ll get him the best criminal defence lawyers north London has to offer. Some will refuse to represent him. You’ll start making a list of people you’ll have to inform when he’s no longer around. You’ll worry about him losing all his clients. You’ll begin trying to sort your finances out.
You’ll do what you can. You won’t let anyone see you cry.
Your coffee will always taste different on the morning of a court date.
Sometimes you’ll go to hearings, sometimes you won’t, sometimes you’ll wait outside the court, sitting on the steps furiously chain-smoking, sometimes you’ll just sit there waiting for the phone call.
You’ll have to make a decision for yourself:
wait around for him while he’s behind bars, clean up whatever messes he’s made on the outside and spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder,
or forget about him and his lovely lopsided smile, take your broken little heart and start a new life without him.