I’m actually very grateful.
There. No jokes. No armour.
A pause follows. Long enough to feel intentional.
Tom
You don’t have to be.
Me
I know. But I am.
I look at the gifts again. The careful choices. The absence of showmanship. The fact that he didn’t make me ask.
Me
No one’s ever done this for me before.
The message hangs there, naked and alarming.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Tom
I’m glad it’s helping.
Me
It is. More than I expected.
I swallow, blinking hard at nothing in particular.
Me
Thank you. Really.
This time he repliesquickly.
Tom
You’re welcome. Anytime.
I set the phone down and sit there for a moment, letting the warmth settle in alongside the ache.
This wasn’t big or loud or romantic in the way people tell stories about.
It was practical. Kind. Considerate.
And somehow, that makes it feel more dangerous than anything else.
Because this isn’t the sort of thing you brush off.
It’s the sort of thing that stays.
The hot water bottle has gone lukewarm again.
I swap it out for a fresh one, moving carefully, chocolate wrapper folded into a neat square on the coffee table because I am tired, not feral. The colouring book lies open where I abandoned it, one mandala half purple, half aggressively red, which feels telling. A plate with the crumbs of several biscuits sits nearby, evidence of a meal that barely qualifies.
