She’d always been able to do that. Piotr, well, he knew how to do that – you had to be able to approach different stories in different ways – but the ability to write a really good article lay in choosing an angle and sticking to it. You couldn’t play devil’s advocate with yourself or the result would be a mixed message. His writing had to be on point. But Eva didn’t agree. He’d stopped giving her his work to read early on in their relationship – just quietly, he didn’t want to have to explain why. The reason was that her response was usually the same, and he found it unhelpful. You’re only giving one side of the story, she’d say. Where’s the other point of view?

But the thing was, after everything had collapsed the way it did, he found himself unable to keep writing any single point of view. His editor said he was always second-guessing himself, and started sending him off on puff pieces where there was no point to make at all.

A trolley wheeled up – they were offered tea, coffee, snacks. He asked for a coffee. Holly shook her head. Eva looked up at him, then her eyes flicked over to the train attendant and she asked if she could have a cup of tea, please, with milk. And somewhere in between looking at him and looking at the train attendant she smiled in a beautifully warm way. Piotr was smiling too, now, as he accepted the coffee she bought him and nearly spilled it because the cup was so hot. He tipped in two sugars, stirred with the small plastic spoon, and resisted the urge to tell Eva that he still loved her. He did though, of course. He had never stopped.

When they’d come home from the hospital that last time, along with the deep emptiness, Piotr had felt so helpless he’d looked down at his feet, at the half-shell of a pistachio nut he’d dropped onto the carpet the week before, rather than look into Eva’s eyes as she cried. She’d gone through labour knowing that her baby was already dead. He couldn’t imagine that pain. He had no idea how to make it better.

Sitting on the sofa, side by side, not touching, staring out of the window at the buildings opposite for hours. The way the noise of the street seemed to scratch his skin, and hers, too – the sense of life elsewhere so invasive it could hurt. The way she slumped forwards, clutching her stomach, he could see she was in pain, severe physical pain, though she made no mention of it. She made no noise at all.