I do not open Mark’s contact.
I am not that far gone.
I open my photos instead, which is only marginally less pathetic.
Whitstable.
The beach.
Breakfast in Mark’s kitchen.
Heath shoved into the beanie looking furious with all available life.
I stop on that one.
My stupid little hamster.
I miss him.
The rustle of him at night. The tiny, offended face every time I cleaned his cage. The absurd comfort of another creature needing me for food and bedding and the occasional nervous pep talk.
He is with Mark.
Safe. Spoilt, probably. Judging everyone.
That was the right choice.
I know it was.
Still, my chest tightens.
Because Mark will know if Heath has been fussy with food.
Mark will know if he has kicked half his bedding into one corner like a furry artist.
Mark will be talking to him in that dry voice as if conversing with a highly anxious rodent is a normal use of a Friday evening.
I swipe.
The next photo is Mark.
Half in frame by the patio doors. Barefoot. One hand shoved into his joggers pocket. Morning light across his arm, catching the ink there. He is not looking at the camera because he didn’t know I took it.
It is a terrible photo.
I stare at it like it might start breathing.
And suddenly every distraction I have spent two weeks building around myself just... stops.
Mark making tea.
Mark laughing under his breath.
Mark holding Heath against his chest like he has been doing it for years.
Mark asking if he can hold me.
Mark looking at me as if I am something to be chosen instead of something temporarily convenient.
