I’m still staring at the search results, listening to the kettle whistle and then click off, when a text message fills the screen.

Hi Harper, I’m not sure what happened yesterday but I think you’re right, it’s best we end things. Just let me know you’re okay. T.

Oh goodie.

Just what I need before caffeine.

A message from Thomas.

A flash of his caramel arms, the smell of candle wax, the gaze of the man in that ugly painting by his bed.

I put my phone down on the countertop and make my coffee then take a sip of it as I glare at the screen, rereading his message.

I’m not sure what happened yesterday?

There’s no simple way to explain that.

There’s only the truth.

Around the time Harrison left me and I finally denounced the idea of true love forever, I started seeing things differently. I guess once you see through one socially sanctioned lie, everything is up for debate. Things like: work hard at a sensible job and everything will turn out fine, fall in love and you’ll be happy, don’t drink at 7 am or you’re an alcoholic. That sort of thing.

Because… why?

Why is drinking at 7 am any worse than 7 pm – isn’t time itself a man-made construct? And nobody judges the guy throwing down a Xanax with his cornflakes, why is that so different?

Why does love get such a great rap when it can quite logically only end in one of three ways: disillusionment, death or divorce?

And if working hard at a sensible job is the answer, why are there so many people working multiple jobs and still unable to pay their bills at the end of the month? Still unable to buy their children new shoes? All while they down antidepressants in a bid to forget the unforgettable: their dreams.

Exactly. It seemed to me society was founded on a series of rather precarious rules and narratives and I didn’t want to be disappointed again. Not like this.

So now I only live by one rule: do no harm.

And Thomas was a hair away from getting attached, it would have harmed him if I’d stayed, so I ended it.

And I didn’t want to end it. It was a sacrifice. Because he was six foot two. Also, he was hot (in a groom cake-topper kind of a way), a financial journalist for Endroit (Paris’s major media conglomerate) and really good in bed. On paper we were a good match and I would have liked him as a fuck buddy. But I’ve learned the hard way that guys might think they want a fuck buddy at the beginning, but once they’ve gotten used to you and seen that you don’t get clingy, all that always seems to change. They start looking at you differently. Sooner or later they start holding your hand. And when it hasn’t changed for you too, egos get hurt and the guy gets mean. They call you a slut. A bitch. A psychopath. And then, if you’re like me, you get so hurt you go home and do an online test just to check they’re not right.