Susan stares at the book, still not moving. I reach over and pass it to her. Her chest rises and falls as her eyes fix firmly on my outstretched arms, the deep red book. The butterflies flit back, up and around in my belly. I place it back on her table again but this time, slowly, she reaches out a soft hand, laying it on the top. She doesn’t move to take it, or open it, but leaves her hand still, fingers covering the title. Eventually she looks up and beyond me, searching for anyone else. For Rhys.

‘He sends his love,’ I say, instinctively. Susan’s eyes shift to mine, piercing my confidence in my rehearsed speech. The butterflies shift to great moths that leap from stomach to throat. ‘He’s quite… Well, he’s busy. He said to say…’ An intensity grows on her face. She’s more engaged in my words than I’ve seen her before. Is that why they run dry? Susan no longer looks like an injured bird in the bed – she looks focused, almost determined. She opens her mouth and my heart stops. I hold my breath, waiting to hear her voice. There’s a beat, and she closes it again, dropping her eyes back down to the book. And as quickly as I caught a glance of her, she is gone.

‘Maybe he’ll come by in a few days,’ I say, because I think that’s what she wants to hear. I don’t sound all that convincing to my own ears. I swallow. The weight of her changing energy has buckled my confidence once and for all. ‘He says he’s sorry,’ I add, fussing about. She reaches her hand out and stops me from patting the bed down. I pull up sharply. ‘Sorry.’ I smooth down my uniform instead. The trees rustle outside the window. ‘Can you hear that?’ I ask. ‘The trees. Listen… They sound like the sea.’ Susan lets her hand fall back onto the bed. I pause, letting the rustle bring back memories of family holidays in Cornwall. Happiness and ice cream. No responsibilities.

‘Susan.’ I speak carefully, words forming before I have the chance to consider their meaning. ‘I was with Rhys, when he collected the book. I just happened to be passing and thought it would be better for you both if I was with him. I hope that’s okay.’ She’s staring at the book. ‘The thing is, Susan…’ I reach out to her, laying my hand on hers, which is still atop the book. ‘I’m really quite worried about you. About your state of mind.’ She lets her eyes wander from my hand to my shoulder, not making eye contact, but somehow making it clear she’s listening. ‘Your house, it felt… Well, it felt as if—’ Susan looks to me now, pushes the book away from reach and turns her face towards the window. This is a no-go area. Out of bounds. But I can’t just leave it.

‘I’d like to help you, Susan.’