I strip off my clothes and leave them in a small sad pile beside the bath, choose a Spotify playlist, then step into the water. I let it submerge me, like that might cleanse away everything I’m feeling right now. But there’s a deep, inky-black ache inside me. It’s Friday today. One week since Sabine went missing. Thirty-six hours since I told Luneau what happened that night. And yet, a quick Google search while I waited on the metro platform revealed Noah hasn’t been arrested yet. That means they haven’t found Sabine’s phone; they haven’t seen the video that had him run after her.

There’s a storm brewing inside of me and I need to get it out. And so I dry off my hands, pick up my phone and navigate to Harrison’s band page. There it is, right at the top, their most popular song. The song he wrote for me: ‘When She Sleeps’.

Play.

And then, as the acoustic guitar echoes off the tiles in that way he’d describe as tinny, I sit back against the cool porcelain of the bath, close my eyes, and remember the night he first played it to me – it was in the living room of our apartment, it was raining outside, and it was just before things turned around for him. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure it was his way of warning me. Hot tears stream down my cheeks.

Her eyes they burn, burn, burn me, She can see straight through me, So it’s only when she sleeps, I’m the man she used to see.

It’s still as derivative as shit. But it still makes me cry, even after all this time. I sniff back tears, close my eyes and sink deeper into the water, letting the warmth embrace me. It’s just today. Tomorrow will be better. I’ll get up, maybe go to yoga, maybe swipe through an app and find a date. There’s a whole world out there. A whole life ahead of me. But then why does it ache like this? The song finishes but the tears keep coming, and I just lie still with my eyes closed, waiting for the song to start up again.

But then, from somewhere in the darkness, comes a different sound. The beep of my phone.

My eyes flick open and I reach for it, squinting down at the screen.

Camilla.

I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand as I read and reread her message.

But it makes no sense at all.

Surprise! I’m outside! Which one is your flat? Xxx

Chapitre Vingt et un

Chapitre vingt et un

I wake up to Lana Del Rey, the smell of coffee and a sour mouthful of hair.