A smash fromthe flat next door follows the occupants’ screams, with colourful language in voices that remind me far too much of my father.
I’d tried to intervene once. The couple ganged up on me, acting like I was in the wrong for sticking my oar in. Clearly, not everyone longed for a saviour in the way I had.
Not long after the smash comes the making up, their headboard crashing against my wall hard enough to lengthen the crack in the plaster on my side. The screams give way to moans, and I grind my teeth while unloading my items onto the chipped old dining table. As much as I don’t envy the tumultuous relationship next door, jealousy makes me ache. What could be so powerful to keep two people who hate each other so loudly coming back to one another in intimacy? Thethings they choose to do have only been used against me in pain and force. There was no pleasure. Only guilt and self-loathing.
I sit at the table with everything spread out in front of me after my shopping trip earlier. A pair of black gloves. A balaclava that will show nothing but my eyes. Dark clothes that I can bin if need be. All cheap and forgettable. Things that no one would think anything about seeing, apart from the balaclava, I guess. Less hard to rock about in that. But that will be saved for the times that I’m most at risk. When I’m close to Kat.
The very thought of being near her has my stomach in knots. I know I’m being insane, but I need more of her before I’m ready to talk to her like a normal human being.
My phone sits in the middle of it all, screen lit up, her face staring back at me.
Beautiful. Ethereal even. My forest sprite in pixels.
It took me longer than I’d like to admit to find her. Ellie’s account was the key, seeing as Kat goes by a series of numbers and letters rather than her name. Sensible, I guess, as it made her difficult to find until I had a side way in. I’d never bothered with social media for myself; it’s not like my life is interesting to anyone else. What would I do, post a selfie of me with a dude’s caved-in face and a wad of cash, hashtagging it #payday? No. It meant downloading Instagram and working out how the hell it functions. It had taken me most of the dayafter I’d watched Kat in the coffee shop and followed her home.
Ellie’s whole life is on there. Photos, tags, nights out, coffees, every little thing in a digital treasure trail.
Breadcrumbs.
Ellie’s profile unlocks Kat’s in minutes.
A flash of blonde hair, pale enough to be closer to white than gold. Still catching the light as it did in the forest, as though drawing from the sun itself.
Leaning forward, I scroll again, memorising each of the images to the most minute detail. The way she scrunches her nose when she laughs. The Earl Grey tea brand she favours. The guy who appears more than once behind her and Ellie when they pose in a club. Many coffees, dinners, and softer moments. Her clear love of being cosy, comfy, and cuddled into soft clothing and furnishings.
Glancing around my sparse flat, with its stark, chipped furniture, stings. She wouldn’t fit here. There’s no comfort at all. Barring the one luxury I’ve purchased for myself. A sleek coffee machine that sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the tired decor. A slice of chrome that brings me some small joy every morning.
God damn, I’m going to have to buy cushions or something.
Not that she’d want to come here.
Another picture. And another. Kat, with her chin propped in her hand, smiling at someone behind thecamera. Kat on a night out with Ellie, pink drink in hand.
Then there’s one of her in pyjamas of the softest pink, her hair loose and messy, like she’s just rolled out of bed.
My chest tightens.
She looks so settled.
Happy.
That’s the word that keeps circling back.Happy. Like that last day didn’t affect her at all. Like she’s managed to forget all about the whole ugly hiccup that I was.
A normal person would be pleased for her. And I am, deep down. She was kind, and she deserves to be content, but it just exaggerates the gulf between us.
My finger drags the screen up, slower this time to wallow in the details.
There’s a little emoji under one of the photos.
A yellow face with hearts for eyes. Heart eyes. Exactly how I feel when I am near her. As though my eyes pop right out of my head like a fucking cartoon character.
My gaze flicks up to the name at the top of my own screen. To the boring anonymous name, I have. I click through to the profile and change my screen name.
Heart_Eyes.
The account I made just to find her. No photo. No posts. Nothing that leadsback to me.
Subtle as anything. I don’t follow her.
