But he does nothing at all. Just dips his head and moves past me. I swivel to watch him go. He doesn’t look back but heads up the stairs and I’m left leaning against the cool tiles of the station, flicking through photos of a bunch of strangers wandering up the stairs. And as I swipe through the photographs I see him for what he is. Just some guy walking up the stairs in the metro station, wondering why some random girl is taking pictures.

And I realise: I’m losing it.

Chapitre Vingt-quatre

Chapitre vingt-quatre

Two days later, I’m staring up at a window. The light – right in the middle of the third floor – is glowing a soft amber. I can see movement behind the thin gauzy curtains; he’s home. And so I press the buzzer for his apartment: number twelve.

Bzzzz.

A woman with a vape walks past me, she blows out a big cloud of smoke and now the air smells of maple syrup as I look in through the green metal and glass security door: mustard floor tiles, gentle lighting, brass letterboxes and a wide wooden staircase. I press the buzzer again.

Bzzzzz.

And I know I shouldn’t be here. It’s selfish and unfair. But I wouldn’t be if there was anybody else who could help me. But there’s not. And so here I am.

I awoke this morning, like any morning, to the sound of church bells – clang-ding-dong – pulled my sleeping mask from my eyes and reached for my phone. There were two messages. One from Camilla: I have an interview on Monday! And one from my mother: a picture of her and Neville on a jetty somewhere, grinning out at the camera, his arm wrapped tightly around her. This means she’s right on schedule – they’ll have another big row in about two weeks. Maybe three. It’ll be over for good then. She sends me pictures like this when she needs to prove how happy she is, like if she can prove it to me, it might become true. And she only does that shit when the wheels are about to fall off. I’ve come to recognise the signs. I’ve also learned there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I trudged through to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and scrolled aimlessly through Instagram as it hissed to life. Quotes. Selfies. And adverts for magnetic eyelashes, teeth whitening treatments, fillers, and dodgy-looking hair extensions – my morning reminder from the powers that be that I’m not quite good enough just as I am.

And then I did the thing I’m not supposed to do anymore.

Maybe it was out of habit, or maybe I just secretly hate myself, but something had me typing H-a-r-r-i– into the search bar and then clicking on his profile.

The room shook just a little as I took in the most recent post.