I bought my ticket to Melbourne, and waited for my flight for three hours. By then I had re-applied my make-up, dried my hair, and composed my face, until it was plastered into a dazed, confused yet persistent expression.

With an hour to go, I began listening to my iPod. I was reduced to tears within minutes, and regretful of all the slow, sad songs that clustered my iTunes. I double checked my phone. Not a single text, or message.

With forty minutes to go, I called my parents. It was a long conversation, filled with accusations, apologies and crying. I think I finally persuaded them to take me in with guilt.

With five minutes to go, I started pacing the waiting area, walking in between rows of cheap chairs that looked onto a view of the airplanes, ready for take off.

It was time to board. The romantic in me finally died when he didn’t show up. I waited until the last minute, and then I left.

I didn’t know he was writing a song. I didn’t know it topped the US single’s charts. I didn’t know it was for me.