Going back to the city the next day was a blur.
I made up some half-believable story for my parents about a “family emergency” and told them Michael had to leave in a rush. They were too wrapped up in post-party exhaustion to ask many questions.
I took the train alone.
The countryside rolled past the window in gray smears. My reflection stared back at me—exhausted, hollow-eyed, older than I was.
I unlocked my tiny studio and stepped inside.
So much had happened in this shoe box in the last two months that it felt haunted by my own memories. I put my bag down. Took off my coat. Took in the stale smell of coffee, laundry detergent, and nights without sleep.
I made myself a cheap instant coffee—the kind that tastes like regret—and hated myself for even daring to wonder if Michael was ho
