Because there, tucked against the wall on Mark’s sideboard, is a black photo frame.
And inside it is me and Mark.
Whitstable seafront.
Mark holding the phone out with one arm, grinning into the wind.
Me beside him, half laughing, half swearing because he took the photo without warning and a gust had nearly sent Heath’s carrier sliding off the wall.
I remember the exact second.
I remember telling him we looked ridiculous.
I remember him saying that was the point.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“He framed it,” I say.
“Yes.”
I keep staring.
At the frame.
At us.
Not Heath.
Not a scenic picture of the sea.
Us.
Sitting there in Mark’s kitchen as if that photograph has become part of the furniture.
Part of the house.
Part of his life.
I hear myself say, because some part of my brain is still committed to denial, “Maybe he just liked the picture.”
Sophie is silent for one beat.
Then, very gently, “Do you believe that?”
No.
Not evenslightly.
And that is suddenly a much bigger problem than the photograph itself.
I stare at the framed photograph for another ten minutes after Sophie hangs up.
Possibly longer.
Long enough that Instagram dims twice, which feels unnecessarily judgemental from an app built entirely on thirst traps and sponsored teeth whitening.
The picture remains exactly where it was.
