His shoulder against mine.
My laugh because he kept taking photos I said were awful.
Happy.
I had been happy.
Painfully, stupidly happy.
We are quite for a while.
The line hums faintly.
Then I ask the question before I can lose my nerve.
“Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t left?”
The silence that follows is not empty.
It is full.
Full of all the places this conversation could still turn.
When Mark finally answers, his voice is so quiet I almost miss it.
“All the time.”
The words build a bridge between us. The plain, quiet truth of it.
I grip the phone tighter.
Outside my office window, Toronto keeps moving. Cars. People heading to appointments. Somewhere below, a siren cuts briefly through the noise and fades again.
None of it feels connected to me.
“All the time?” I repeat.
Mark lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, only without any humour in it.
“Yes, Philip. All the time.”
I sit down slowly.
I stare at the framed certificates on the opposite wall like they might offer guidance.
They do not.
Useless bits of paper.
“What do you think would have happened?” I ask.
“I think,” he says slowly, “you would’ve stayed Sunday night.”
I close my eyes.
He continues.
“And then probably Monday morning because Heath would’ve looked settled and we’d have found an excuse.”
