students are huddled inside the various bars, all wearing their coats and drinking pints. Earlier today, I would have seen these people as potential friends, or classmates, my application to study here in Liverpool still in process. Now, they’re just loud and in my face, a blatant reminder of the path I’ll no longer go down.
If Nick didn’t live there, then who did?
It was him … It was … with another woman. And two kids.
Halfway up the bustling street, I see a church ahead, lit with colourful floodlights and lasers. As I approach, I notice that not only is the church missing a roof, but the inside is hollow, shrubs and greenery growing around its frame. How utterly spectacular! If only I had my sketchbook with me. I’d love to capture this moment, even with a few strokes of a pencil. Sure, it’s raining, but the raindrops could add character, give the sketch some extra life. But no. It’s locked up in that multi-storey parking lot with the rest of my things.
Anyway, I won’t even have any use for the stupid sketchbook. Not now. Not after what happened this afternoon at Clifton Crescent.
I think of those little girls.
They both looked like their mom; almost like three sisters. I’m all father, something which definitely disappointed my mom from the word go. Today, the younger girl was a bundle of chaos and cuteness, but the older girl, she seemed – I don’t know – sad? Okay, maybe not sad, but tense. I was about her age when my parents finally called it a day. We were living in Singapore then. I’d just settled into school. I sometimes think about the friends I made, wonder if I’d still be friends with them now if social media had been around back then. Would I know the names of their kids? See what they wore on their wedding day? Perhaps been invited to some of those weddings? Or would they just be names that ‘like’ a photo now and again, or wish me a Happy Birthday, hon!?
By the time I arrive back at the hostel, my whole body feels battered, bruised with exhaustion. I know it’s not actually possible for a human heart to break, a lightning crack down its centre, but it’s the only way I can describe the feeling in my chest, beside my lungs, trapped behind my ribcage. It hurts. It really fucking hurts.
The room itself isn’t too bad, though. Pine desk with a matching chair, a clean sink and mirror, a single bed with fresh folded sheets. Folded. Oh, God. I’ve got to make my own bed.
I pick up the white bed sheet, hard and crisp, and shake it open.
No. I’m just too tired.
There’s nothing I want to do right now. And I mean it. Nothing.
So, I flop down onto the bare mattress, not even pausing to remove my army jacket or my suede sneakers, damp with the splashes from the outdoor puddles. The sheet’s creases are harsh, lines as sharp as rulers, but I cuddle it against me. It can act as a giant tissue.
I haven’t cried over a guy like this, ever.
Sure, I cried over Zein (I know – Zein and Zara – believe me, that’s as cute as it got). Another lifelong expat, he was a first-class engineering graduate and we were on and off for years; usually on when we were both in Dubai. When he suggested a ski weekend in Beirut, I’d just been offered a promo job and couldn’t say no to the money. I mean, if I wasn’t paying my papa back for the wasted tuition fees after I dropped out of university, I would’ve gone. Except, I was. Paying my papa back. And, guess what? Zein fell in love on the slopes of Mzaar. Fate. They’re married now and have a son. I’ve always told myself that was beautiful because if it happened to Zein, it will happen to me. It happens to all of us.
But I’ve been single – well, ‘dating’ – ever since.
I check my phone.
Nick is online. Oh my God, he’s online. And yet he hasn’t messaged me. Did he see me? God, of course he saw me. Unless he’s blind, something else he might have miraculously forgotten to mention along with the whole house and the whole wife and the two whole fucking children. I can’t help myself. I type.
What happened today? Send.
I wait for the tick. The two ticks. They don’t turn blue. He hasn’t seen it. He’s