“Sorry,” he said, keeping his gaze low. “It’ll come to me.”
He looked down at his notes, but his brain had rendered him dyslexic. The words blurred together, becoming nothing more than letters on paper, nonsensical and distant. His breath was shallow, his pulse thudding against his skull.
“Logan,” he heard a voice whisper.
Then, a hand on his elbow.
“Come on, let’s take a minute.”
He turned to find David, his unmistakably Irish colleague, staring at him. They’d been acquaintances for years, sharing the odd social drink and exchanging views on cases. In a different world, they might have even become friends, but David’s outspoken, eccentric nature had always clashed with Tad’s rigid and dogmatic attitudes.
David, without waiting for a response, steered him off the stage, calling out something to the audience about a brief intermission.
They walked through the doors in silence and then came to a stop outside the laboratories.
“Right so, now we’ve a bit of privacy, what’s goin’ on, like?” David asked, eyeing him. “You’re not on something, are ya?”
“Of course not,” Logan fired back, running a frustrated palm down his face. “I—” He sighed, shaking his head. How could he begin to answer that? He’d been asking himself the same thing for days. “I…I don’t know.”
David studied him for a long moment. “This isn’t like you at all. You’re a proper mess.”
“It’s nothing,” Logan muttered as he looked away, acutely aware of how tired he felt. “Really, it’s nothing. Just a lot on my mind at the moment.”
“Like what?”
“I’d rather not go into it.”
“Ah, come on now. It’s me you're talkin’ to. I’m not Tad.”
Logan stared at the floor, unsure why David’s insistence bothered him so much.
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Coming from someone who scored first-class honours with torture-level insomnia, I don’t buy it.”
After a pause, Logan lifted his gaze, his jaw tightening as it hit him what David was saying.
“I’ve nothing to prove to you. I said I’m tired, so I’m tired, got it?” he snapped.
Then, without thinking, he headed for the exit, slamming the door behind him.
That night, back in his apartment, he sat slouched on the couch, the room dimly lit by the lamp beside him. An empty glass rested on the table, and a half-finished bottle of whisky stood next to it. The city outside was alive with distant sirens, the faint soundof laughter, and the occasional car horn honk. But inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.
He rubbed his face with both hands, the exhaustion from the day settling deep into his bones. His phone sat beside him, and he picked it up, thumb hovering over the screen before unlocking it.
Wherever she was, she needed someone, and by her own admission, she didn’t have anyone. But if he pressed her and forced himself into the situation despite her asking for distance, did that make him a predator? He needed her, and he struggled to imagine a world where she didn’t need him.
After debating it, he typed out the message slowly and deliberately.
Are you okay?
His thumb lingered over the send button, the words staring back at him. He imagined her reading them, imagining her frowning at the screen, internally debating whether to reply or ignore it altogether.
What would she even say?
Did she even want to hear from him?
A sharp exhale left his lips. His thumb moved, but instead of pressing send, he deleted the message, one letter at a time, until nothing was left.
