She leans her elbows on the counter. “You mean a few ofhim, don’t you?”
I blink. “What?”
“Oh, come on. You’ve had that look all week — distracted, secretive, as though you’re living in a slow-motion replay.”
I laugh, too quickly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” she says, grinning. “You like him.”
“I barely know him.”
“Uh-huh. That’s never stopped anyone.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “He’s just… interesting.”
“Interesting’s the first step toward doomed,” she teases. “Careful, Rosie.”
I sip my coffee to avoid answering. She’s not wrong, and it strikes me how well she knows me considering we only met a year ago when she transferred over to the same uni. But she’s wrong, it’s not just attraction, it’s curiosity. There’s something in Callum’s eyes I can’t name. Something that doesn’t match the confident version everyone else sees.
When I leave the café, the clouds have thickened. The air smells like snow, metallic and sharp. I pull my coat tighter and head toward the gallery; the community space where I sometimes help hang exhibitions. My tutor hooked me up with the owner, said it would be good for my development.
Inside, I find Marta on a ladder, wrestling with a frame twice her size. “Rose! Perfect timing,” she calls. “Can you hold this before I throw it at the wall?”
I laugh, stepping in to steady the frame. “Rough morning?”
“Every morning is rough when artists decide everything needs to be ‘slightly more existential’two hours before opening.”
We get the last few pieces hung, and by the time we’re done, my arms ache in that satisfying way work can ache. Marta hands me a biscuit and eyes me shrewdly.
“You look better,” she says. “More colour in your face.”
“Thanks.”
“Been taking pictures again?”
“Yeah. Hockey, mostly.”
“Good. You need that.” She pauses. “You still having nightmares?”
“Not as much.” They’ve been less frequent this week. Still as vivid though.
She nods, the kind of nod that understands more than she says. “Keep busy. Don’t let your head make stories out of silence.”
I want to tell her it’s too late for that. My head’s already a film reel of what-ifs.
By evening, the light outside turns silver-blue. I’m back at my desk in my little flat, sorting through prints. My apartment smells faintly of developer fluid and the cheap takeaway I forgot to finish.
I hang the new prints to dry. The one of Callum catches the glow from the desk lamp. The sharp lines of his face, the concentration etched there. I shouldn’t look. I do anyway.
I pick up my phone and open Instagram. He hasn’t liked or commented on the photo I posted. Not that I expected him to. Still, my chest dips a little. Then I notice something else. He’s viewed my story. The one I posted this morning of the rink lights flickering across the ice. It’s such a small thing. A name in a list. But my pulse trips anyway.
I scroll through his page. It’s mostly hockey training clips, game shots, and team stuff. A few old posts with Talia, the influencer girlfriend everyone online seems to adore. I click one, it’s a photo of the two of them in matching jackets, her leaning into him, both smiling perfectly. Something twists in my stomach and I exit out fast. This is stupid. He’s not mine to think about. He’s just a man I met by accident after the stupid crash.
I try to focus on work again, but my brain won’t settle. Instead, I end up on my balcony, cup of tea in hand, city lights winking below. It’s cold enough that my breath fogs. I remember the way he looked at me in the hospital, careful but intent, as though he was trying to memorise me. I remember his apology that didn’t make sense. The way he seemed haunted. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. I sit there until the tea goes cold.
It’s late when I finally crawl into bed. The wind hums against the window, a low steady sound. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days, too many thoughts looping, unfinished. When I do drift off, I dream I’m back on the road that night. The headlights come fast, bright enough to swallow the world. But this time, when the car in front stops, the door opens. Someone gets out. I can’t see his face.
I wake with my heart racing.
