Chapter 10.
680 Words
The morning stretched on, heavy with expectation.
I lingered by the window longer than I should have, tea cooling in my hands. Part of me thought Alan might appear as he usually did. I half expected to see him striding across the path, shoulders squared, the faintest curve at his mouth when I opened the door.
But the minutes passed. The sun climbed higher. The only movement outside was the sway of the sea grass and the flight of a gull overhead.
By late morning, I gave up waiting.
I told myself I wasn’t going to. That it didn’t matter. But eventually, my feet carried me down the road to his cottage anyway, each step betraying more curiosity than I wanted to admit.
The small house sat quiet, tucked neatly against the trees. I knocked once. Twice. The sound echoed, unanswered.
“Alan?” I called softly.
Nothing.
I lingered a little longer, shifting from one foot to the other, until the silence pressed too firmly. Then I sighed, turning back toward the road.
Fine. If he wasn’t here, I’d make a day of it myself.
---
The town unfolded in its quiet way, each street holding the easy rhythm I was beginning to know. I walked the shoreline first, the sand warm beneath my shoes, the tide low and glittering.
It felt strange without him beside me. Usually he would point something out — a smooth piece of sea glass, a stretch of tide pools, the curve of the horizon. Today it was just me, cataloguing small treasures and tossing them back.
I stopped where the rocks jutted out, remembering the afternoon we’d walked here together. The memory rose too easily: Alan steadying me when I slipped, the teasing remark he’d made, the low sound of his laugh that had surprised me more than the slip itself.
It shouldn’t have meant so much. But it did.
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By midday, I wandered into town, weaving through narrow lanes. The air smelled of bread and salt, the shopfronts bright with flowers. I ducked into a small café, ordering something warm and sweet.
At the table by the window, I let myself drift.
I thought of him again, sitting across from me. How he would have commented on the pastry — probably too much sugar, too little substance — before quietly finishing it anyway. I smiled faintly at the thought, then sighed, pushing the plate away.
It was ridiculous, how much space he occupied even when absent.
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Later, I found myself near the berry patch we’d stumbled on days before. The bushes bent heavy with fruit, not as bright as the ones we’d picked earlier, but still enough to catch the light.
I crouched, running my fingers over the leaves, remembering his dry commentary about my “tragic” pie. My laugh startled a bird from the branches, and for a moment I could almost hear his voice again, low and steady, amused at my expense.
It made the emptiness sharper.
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By late afternoon, I’d walked more of the town than I intended. My feet ached, but I didn’t head back right away. Instead, I stopped at the overlook above the water, the view stretching wide and endless.
I counted the days in my head.
Nine days already gone. Only five left, five days until I packed my bags, until I left this place, until whatever this was — with Alan, with all of it — became memory.
The thought settled like a stone in my chest.
---
When I finally returned to the cottage, the sky had softened to gold. I lit a lamp, the glow filling the small space, and sank into the chair by the window.
The day had been fine. Peaceful. I’d walked, eaten, laughed to myself once or twice.
But it had also been hollow, each moment shaped more by his absence than my presence.
I rested my chin against my hand, staring out at the path, foolishly half-expecting him to appear even now.
He didn’t.
Still, I left the lamp burning, just in case.
- Writer
