Then I see the suitcase.
Dark blue, standing upright beside the front step.
I slow.
There is someone at the door.
One hand against the glass panel, face tipped towards it as he tries to look inside.
Suit jacket over one arm.
Head bent.
I stop at the gate.
Because I know that shape.
Even from here.
Philip.
For a second I genuinely think I am hallucinating from lack of sleep.
Philip shifts.
Turns slightly.
Sees me.
And freezes.
We stare at each other across the small patch of gravel.
He looks tired.
Not casually tired.
The kind of tired that sits in clothes. In shoulders. In the way someone is holding themselves together through force of organisation and caffeine.
His shirt is creased. His hair is flattened oddly at one side. There are shadows under his eyes, and his grip on the suit jacket looks unnecessarily tight.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Then says, “Hi.”
I stop just inside the gate.
“Hi.”
He nods once.
Too quickly.
“I realise this is…”
He gestures vaguely around himself.
