My first date in nearly a year was with my Ex.
It wasn't labelled as a date, it didn't feel like a date, but it did have all the markings of a date.
The stipulated meeting time, the location, the choice to take our seats in the empty back row (although, ostensibly, this was to avoid the reams of children at the front).
But it wasn't a date, because there was no crafty hand holding, no kissing, no making excuses to touch. No small talk. Just conversation until the film started then silence punctuated by in-jokes; then the rest of the day spent wandering fairly aimlessly around London.
A week later, we did it again.
And now I think - how much do I try and explain it to you? The news that he's back in touch is something kept between me and a select few friends; the ones that don't judge my decision to meet him and sit and listen, and get him out of the house on the bad days.
My decision to keep it quiet doesn't come from being worried about reactions, the well-meaning but wholly unnecessary warnings to be careful, but more because it seems the right thing to do, in much the same way that I felt cutting off all contact for months was the right thing to do, too.
How can I expect anyone else to understand that, far from leaving me bewildered and confused, it's actually nice to sit and chat about things I haven't been able to think - let alone talk - about in over 18 months? Travelling stories, the little moments I had to forget because they involved him, the moving out, our flat, the jokes, the people we met - good times that were amazing until it all went wrong in the space of a week.
And, of course, to hear and try to understand the reason why.
"I just want to feel normal again." he said, as we sat in my living room on separate sofas last night, "But sometimes I think it's karma."
"Karma for what?" I replied.
"For what happened with us."
"Nah. I don't think it's karma. It is what it is."
And for now, that's just how it goes.