I lock the phone and put it face down.
The office feels too quiet.
Too big.
For the first time since I got here, there is nothing between me and the truth.
I miss him.
Not the weekend.
Not just the sex, though my body remains annoyingly clear on that subject.
Him.
His steadiness.
His honesty.
The ease of being with someone and not feeling like I have to perform competence every second of the day.
I have spent years mistaking manageable for happy.
Years choosing what made sense.
What was practical. Safe. Adult.
And now I am in a beautiful new office in a city that has offered me everything I said I wanted, realising that all sensible decisions really guarantee is that no one can call you reckless when you are miserable.
That is not a fun revelation for a Friday.
I pick up the phone again.
Mark’s name is there.
One message.
How’s Heath?
Simple. Casual. Entirely hamster-related.
Except it wouldn’t be.
It would be me.
Me in an empty office at nearly seven-thirty because going back to the flat feels lonelier than staying here under fluorescent lighting.
Me wanting to hear his voice.
Me tugging on something I am not remotely sure I have the right to tug on.
Mark deserves better than becoming the person I reach for because the silence has finally got too loud.
So I put the phone back down.
Pack my laptop.
Switch off the desk lamp.
