And he hasn’t said a word.
I wait because the silence is a test I didn’t plan, and I can’t stop running.
Tuesday. Nothing.
Wednesday. We fuck on his kitchen floor, urgent, graceless, my back against the tile, lips at my throat. After, I lie there with my t-shirt bunched under my armpits and his come on my stomach and the programme on page eleven sitting behind my eyes like a, like evidence I’m choosing not to submit.
He makes coffee and hands me a mug. Talks about the conference panels he’s attending. Mentions three speakers by name.
The omission is surgical. Clean. The precision of it fractures my chest.
I drink the coffee, say nothing. He traces circles on my knee with his thumb. Automatic. Affectionate. He doesn’t know I’m watching it.
Thursday. Nothing.
Friday. I check the application list outside Deakin’s office. Eighteen names. Mine’s fourth. Logistics, not victory. Room numbers, alibis, and how many doors are between his room and mine.
Laurence texts:We should coordinate schedules. Meet me at the flat tonight.We coordinate. Sitting at his kitchen table with the programme between us, highlighters, and a shared calendar. The skip is so smooth it could be accidental. It isn’t.
I make a note of Panel B, day two, 14:00. Don’t circle it. Don’t mention it.
It has a twin now—his silence about Hugo, my silence about knowing. Two omissions face each other.
The question is available:Hey. Your ex is keynoting at the conference. Shall we talk about that, or are we doing the thing where we don’t?
I don’t ask it.
Because asking gives him the chance to explain, and explaining might make it reasonable, and reasonable might defuse the bomb, and part of me wants to see what happens when it goes off.
It’s a test. I know it’s a test. The caring doesn’t exist to stop me.
Mum texts at half eight on a Tuesday morning in February.Happy birthday, my love. 19, make it count. The fridge has the cake. Love you.Thelove youis a Carrick woman’slove, written because she can’t say it on a doorstep. I send back the heart emoji I’ve been sending since sixth form. It doesn’t cover it. It never does.
Nineteen. It doesn’t fit right. I’m still fresher enough to forget I’m not eighteen for the first three days of a new number.
I spend the morning in the library because the library is the only place in Manchester that doesn’t know what date it is. Everything else has decided to assault the city with red andpink, like somebody somewhere is getting a commission on hearts. The shop windows in Piccadilly Gardens. The Boots in Rusholme. A lad on the tram with a bouquet that cost his lunch money and the panicked eyes of someone learning too late that flowers are the simple part.
Femi finds me around one. I know it’s him before I see him. Femi, in a library, is a man trying to respect a space he clearly resents, complete with shuffling apologies for existing.
‘Carrick.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘I will not. It is your birthday and I am your friend from the Global South, which comes with specific obligations. Come.’
He stops at my desk. Holds out a paper bag. Heavy. I take it.
‘What’s this.’
‘Open it outside. They’ll shush me again and I’m at my limit.’
Outside. Rusholme rain on our collars. I open the bag. A box of fresh samosas from the place on Wilmslow Road his cousin swears by. Still warm, and a card. Handmade. A writing on the front of a folded piece of A4 that saysTO THE SECOND-FITTEST BOY ON THE ECONOMICS DEGREE, and inside, in Femi’s capitals,the fittest one is me, obviously, but you’re close. nineteen suits you. Find your creepy lover and let him feed you proper food. It’s Saint Valentine and it’s your BIRTHDAY! love, F.
I look at him. He’s trying not to grin. Failing.
‘Femi.’
‘Don’t start.’
