Elvis meows again, circling my ankles once before sitting directly in my path, demanding answers I don’t have.
‘It was a business arrangement that got complicated. He got a better offer, and he’s not one to turn that down. I’m not the one to stop him. It was just…bad timing. This happens quite often between can openers, you know?’
I move to the kitchen on autopilot, flicking on lights as I go. The brightness feels offensive, exposing Finn’s absence in my flat with merciless clarity.
There’s a note on the counter next to my spare set of keys, a single sheet of paper folded in half. I open it and recognise his handwriting. Blocky capitals, pressed hard into the page:
Thanks for everything. I mean it. F.
Six words is all I get. Six generic, meaningless words that could have been written to anyone – his physio, his taxi driver, his barber. I read the words again, searching for a subtext that isn’t there. It’s polite and final. He meant the successful rebrand, the damage control. Everything except me.
And Just ‘F’, not even a full ‘Finn’. An initial, a sign-off.
The end.
I crease the paper’s edge as I fold it again, smaller and smaller until it’s just a tight square of nothing. I yank open the drawer where I keep takeaway menus, batteries, and rubber bands, and tuck it inside.
This hurts so much more than Gil. That betrayal was a slow poison, a theft of my work and my trust, the gradual deconstruction of my confidence. Losing Finn is the brutal amputation of something much more vital, and I still feel the phantom limb of him everywhere.
‘He didn’t even say goodbye properly,’ I tell Elvis, who’s watching from his perch on the counter. ‘Just walked out of that lift.’
My cat yawns, unimpressed.
‘I’m fine,’ I insist, reaching for the kettle. ‘This is fine. It’s actually perfect. Clean break. No mess.’
The water splashes against the metal interior. I set it on its base with too much force and click the handle.
‘We made him marketable again. He got Marseille, and I got a partnership. Everybody wins.’
Except I’m the one standing in a too-quiet flat with a chest that won’t stop hurting, discussing my love life with my cat.
Elvis lets out another offended yowl, a sound with teeth in it.
‘What? It’s true.’ I grab a mug from the cupboard. The one with the glittery rainbow. The one Finn always used because he said it matched his ‘aesthetic’.
I shove it back and grab another.
‘Marseille is bigger than anything we could’ve possibly imagined when we started. It’s what he needs at this point in his career, and, as I said, I won’t get in his way.’ The words catch, but I push through.
We were a means to an end. A glorious, temporary, hot means to an end. I should be grateful for the memories, for the sex, for the way he made me laugh until my stomach ached. Made me scream until I had no air. Me. I’ve never screamed for anything in my life.
But gratitude feels like swallowing sand.
I can’t cope with the loss. The before-and-after of him splits my life into two unequal halves.
Before Finn, sex was fine. Enjoyable enough, in the way a holiday you can’t quite remember is still technically a holiday. I’d been with a handful of men before, and none of them were cruel or careless. They were decent and kind. Even Gil. But it always felt like something I had to manage. My expectations, their egos, the disappointment when it didn’t really land. It was mostly fun, but also functional.
And then Finn turned everything on its head and changed the rules of the game for fucking ever.
He made sex feel like electricity and softness and something close to worship. I’d never been watched like that, never been handled like I was the whole point. He listened, adjusted, and watched me come apart with a quiet focus that made it impossible to hide. And I couldn’t get enough.
I’d never had sex that left me undone hours later. Never walked into a meeting still aching, still reeling, still clenching around the echo of him. He was possessive. Not in a way that claimed me, but in a way that asked if I knew I could be claimed. And I let him.
Elvis flicks his tail dismissively.
‘At least I’m not the one who spent a day sulking under the bed because he brought me the wrong flavour of Dreamies.’
The kettle clicks off. I pour water over a tea bag I don’t remember selecting. Watch as the colour bleeds outward, turning the water a deep amber.
