The woman handed me a card.
“If you’re ever interested, we take interns.Paid ones.You’d fit right in.”
I stared at the card long after she had left.
Robbie nudged me gently.
“You should do it,” he said.“You’d be brilliant.”
No one had ever said that to me before.
Not like they meant it.
My head was buzzing with so many thoughts, and at the very top of the list was Robbie and the fact that I’d never have been offered this opportunity if it weren’t for him.
As the weeks went by, we found a rhythm of meeting halfway — Richmond, Waterloo, Southbank.
We tried new cafés.
Robbie always ordered something safe.
I always stole a bite.
He’d pretend to be outraged.
I’d pretend to be innocent.
We talked about everything — his dad, my work, his writing, my fears.
He never flinched.
Never judged.
Just listened.
And every time he looked at me, that knot in my chest loosened a little more.
When we said goodbye at stations, he’d linger.
Always linger.
Once, he kissed me on the cheek before boarding.
Just a brush of lips.
Soft.
Quick.
But it stayed with me all night.
I replayed it like a favourite song.
Somewhere between the texts, the calls, the museums, the stolen bites of cake, and the way he’d say “Ash” like it was a secret...
I realised I wasn’t performing anymore.
I wasn’t pretending.
