Philip’s number sits there.
One press away.
I stare at it.
Then lock the screen and put the phone face down.
No.
He said he wasn’t good at this.
He said he needed to let it be what it was.
I can respect that.
Even if respecting it feels suspiciously like being kicked in the ribs by common sense.
Heath pokes his nose out again.
Looks at me.
Then retreats.
I fold my arms.
“You,” I tell him, “are a terrible roommate.”
I leave Heath to settle and head upstairs for a shower.
By the time I come back down in joggers and a T-shirt, the edge of the day has dulled slightly.
Heath is sitting in the food bowl, stuffing sunflower seeds into his face with the grim determination of a man eating through emotional collapse.
I lean on the island and watch him.
“You’re coping better than I am, which feels unfair.”
He ignores me.
The beanie, however, is another matter.
Sunday lunch has not improved its condition.
Between the panic-shit incident and Heath’s insistence on treating it like a bunker, it now looks like a damp woollen health hazard.
That needs washing.
I open the cage carefully while Heath is occupied and lift the beanie out.
He freezes.
One sunflower seed hanging out of his mouth.
Suspicion.
“It’s being cleaned,” I tell him.
No visible reassurance.
