When the referendum result came in, Reece’s family were ecstatic but his southern girlfriend was heartbroken. Will Brexit tear them apart?

A train pulls out of the station. We see the station name sign. Reece, 20, sits in the station cafe drinking a watery hot chocolate. His phone is on the table in front of him.

She hasn’t texted to tell me she’s on the train.



I hope she’s on the train.

I haven’t seen her in three weeks and, not to get all chick flick about it, but I do miss her. Hannah. We first met at this spoken word night at uni – which isn’t usually my thing but I’d just moved down to London and thought I’d try something new, like hummus and hot yoga.

We hit it off straightaway. She’d bring her mates round to mine and they’d chill with my mates. A room full of kids from all different walks of life sharing a six-pack, a spliff and a playlist. And as the night turned to early morning we’d debate all things under the sun.

On the morning of the result I received two messages. One from my dad that simply says: “BREXIT!!!”



In block capitals and far too many exclamation marks, like he’d just won the championship.

And one from Hannah. No words. Just emojis. A torn Union Jack. A sad face. A crying face. An angry face. A little pile of poo with a face.

In the next few weeks her mates come round and chill with my mates but the debates have turned into something else, it’s changed.



Hannah and her mate are sat watching a clip of this man from “up north”, celebrating Brexit. They’re sat watching it like they watch those kids doing stupid things and then posting them on the internet. She says: “Look at him. Scum.”

She calls him scum. This man she doesn’t know. This man who could be my dad. She says he looks like he’s come from Idiot-town. In a place that could easily be my home town.

And I say: “52% of the country can’t all be scum. They can’t all be idiots, racists or xenophobes.”



And everyone’s just looking at me.

This man who was like my dad, in his stained work overalls, in a job that’s not the best going but the only job going. Looking like it’s been a struggle to feed his kids or put a roof over his head. Knowing that there’s something wrong with his country and having the chance to do something about it. After years of being ignored, he’s looking like he’s finally being heard.



And they come back at me with their twittergram phrases about being right, about being the real majority. Words of being let down and having to protect their future.



So I ask them to name their local MP.



Silence.

I guess no one posted that on Facebook.

I ask Hannah: “Why don’t you try and engage with the people who voted leave – the people who didn’t think like you? Why don’t you ask them why?”



And she says she doesn’t know anyone who voted leave.

And I tell her:

“Yes you do.”

And she looks at me. They all just look at me.

He makes his way to the platform



I didn’t hear from her for a week. Her and her mates didn’t come round and chill again. I sent her messages, no words, just emojis. Face blowing a kiss, the flamenco woman dancing, smiley face, heart, heart, broken heart.



I went round to her place and left an envelope under the door with a letter and a train ticket. The letter says that I’m going back home for a bit. The ticket’s for her to come up and see me today. Walk round my town with me. See that it’s not full of idiots but frustrated people who feel like they’ve been given up on. I asked her to meet my my family, my dad. Look into his eyes and see that he’s not scum. Come share a six-pack, a playlist and debate with him.

He stands next to the station name sign. A train approaches. The train departs. Reece has his back to us. He walks along the platform holding Hannah’s hand.