44 days, 28

Today we're treading softly, talking in casual whispers, because today we carry ALL of our enormous hope. Why does hope feel so like fear? I'm in the grip of this hope and this gnawing fear and they are SO much bigger than I, a wave that tosses me about and all I can do is hold my breath and wait. I do what people do when they're scared. I call home and – although I didn't see it coming – I cry.

I remember when I was waiting for the results of my exam to get into university. We were all in a small nondescript hotel room at the seaside. A neighbour in Bucharest went to find out the results posted on a wall outside the University. At this end, my dad walked to the post office to call the neighbour. I didn't want to hear. Strange. I don't remember the room, I have no recollection of having felt any fear. I just refused to think about it.

Dad came striding across the road to our hotel, waving at mum on the balcony. He grinned and punched the air and she burst into tears. At the sound of her apparent distress I ran to the balcony to see dad still grinning, still punching the air, shouting: 'You've done it, you're in, we're in!'

Today I burst into tears (no sorrow yet, no joy, just the unbearable wait) and mum says 'Things always fall as they should. One day everything will make sense.'

Of course she's right and I must remember: 'Things always fall as they fall. Que sera, sera. Things happen when it's their time to happen.' I must remember it all night, because I know I won't be able to sleep.