Obituary

The flat becomes a graveyard, its soul fled somewhere unreachable. Our hanging photographs are survived only by the ghostly rectangles of clean paint, the rest of the walls discoloured from the everyday grit of our lives. Flowers I bought die in their vase, petals collecting like leaves beneath a wilting tree. There is a sense of something ending; a curtain falling, a book closing, dirt tossed on a casket.  

I stand on the stairs, watching him silently through the gap in the doorframe. I can only see a sliver of him from this angle; the singular curl of hair at his nape, the outer curve of his ear. It doesn’t matter - I know the rest of him better than I know my own face. In my mind, I fill in the missing pieces: the freckle on his lip; the way he blinks thoughtfully, his eyebrows scrunched together; the silver scar on the bridge of his nose. I creep closer, stepping carefully to avoid the creakiest part of the stair. I can see more of his face now, illuminated by the lamp I bought and hauled up three flights of stairs the weekend we moved in. I watch him stare at his open wallet, his hands long-fingered and elegant. I watch him reach into the see-through pocket and slide out what I know is a picture of us from our first anniversary; bodies pressed together, lips stained red with wine, his eyes shining as he gazes at me. I watch as he closes his wallet with one hand, the photograph pinched between his fingers, as he looks at us. I watch as he drops it, and we both watch it flutter into the bin. 

We move around one another like strangers, our bodies keeping a constant perimeter of distance between us. It’s like we’re opposing magnets, one of us pushed away as the other draws close on the landing, as we shift in the open space of the kitchen. He stops cooking in the evenings, piles of takeout containers aggregating in the recycling, the thick gravy of Thai green curry residue heavily grasping the foil. He starts showering in the mornings, earlier than I’ve ever known him to wake, leaving wet footsteps on the carpet to the spare room like five-pointed arrows. I can smell him everywhere all of a sudden; the scent of him I’d become so accustomed to now pervasive, wafting from the clean sheets I snap over our bed, too large for only my body, the citrus of his aftershave sharp on pillowcases he won’t sleep on, his sea salt soap scenting the steam left behind in the shower. The smell of his skin, abruptly in my nostrils when I’m curled up on the sofa alone, writing and deleting messages to Harry, to Liv, to Mum. It’s a comforting sort of pain, like pressing on a bruise. I press and press, contusions etched into my body, into my mind.

I do laundry sparingly, only when I’m forced to wear a pair of too-small bikini bottoms as underwear to work, the day spent restlessly shifting the elastane where it bites into my hips. I stay late at my desk, eyes wide and blank, staring at my computer screen long after it’s gone to sleep. Desperate to know if Noah is home, unable to bear the answer. I eat frequently, in heaping spoonfuls, piling food into my mouth until I can barely chew, breathing in ragged gasps through my nose. There is a constant lump in my throat, a deep well of hunger in my belly that food can’t satisfy, a bloated fullness to my body that makes me feel like an intruder in my own skin. 

*

The night I can’t come back from, he didn’t come home until 2am. His phone was still off, my messages showing as delivered, unread. He found me on the staircase, hugging my knees, the scratchy yellow blanket he hates wrapped around my shoulders. We stared at one another, my eyes red, his face drawn and pale. My hands shook when I reached for him. He took my hand, clammy in his, and he started to talk, telling me about his day, his eyes shifting, thumb stroking the veins of my hand. He didn’t say where he’d been or who he’d been with. He told me about the phone call with his dad earlier that day, news from home. He told me about a dream he’d had a few nights ago, its contents disjointed and meandering, how he woke with a formless, grappling fear, while I’d been asleep beside him. His mouth seemed swollen. His voice was rough, gravelly, like he’d been smoking, or talking too much. I sat there, clutching the blanket, clutching him, wanting the night to go on forever, knowing it would end.

*

“I don’t understand this, Matty. It’s not like you to make such a huge decision on a whim.” Liv leans forward, chin on her hand. 

I bite back a sigh. “It’s not a whim.”

“It seems like it is. It can’t be that bad? Surely? You guys have always been so… solid.”

I rub my eyes tiredly, cursing under my breath when I remember I wore mascara tonight. I wipe the smudges away with my fingertips, gnawing at my lip.

She raises her eyebrows. “You’re really not going to tell me what happened?”

I shrug, shaking my head. I let my eyes unfocus around the bar, sliding over the various groups of slouching office workers in their rumpled suits, hands protective over sweating pints. A woman sits hopefully at the bartop, hinging forward to force conversation with a young bartender. His colleague looks on in amusement, drying glasses with a faded cloth.

“Noah loves you, any idiot can see that.” She reaches for my hand. “Whatever it is… you don’t have to say goodbye, you know?”

I look at her, her sweet round face, her characteristically large earrings pulling the lobes of her ears down like sagging branches. Her undereyes are mottled blue, deeper than the last time I saw her. 

I meet her gaze. “It’s not that simple.” 

She sighs. “How’s Harry taking it?”

“I… haven’t seen him.” She raises her eyebrows. I shrug again. “I haven’t really seen anyone.”

“That’ll be a messy custody battle.” She takes a sip of wine, circling the base of her glass with a pink-painted fingernail. “It’ll change things.” A beat of silence, everything this means unfolding before us. “Do you love him?” 

I frown. “Of course I do.” 

“Then you can fix it. Right?” She gulps her wine, eyes on me. She licks her lips, and there’s something unsettlingly fervid about it that makes me recoil. The bar feels claustrophobic suddenly, the music too loud, the tables placed uncomfortably close; the press of bodies and conversation pushing down on me in heavy pulses. 

I think of Noah this afternoon, how he stuffed clothes into his backpack with one hand, chucked his toothbrush in loose, its bristles still wet from the morning, how he hesitated as he packed his book from his bedside table. How he zipped up the bag and hefted it onto one shoulder, avoiding my eyes. How he ducked his head and left the flat quietly, without argument, without touching me. Without a promise to return.

“I don’t think so,” I say to Liv now, leaning back in my chair. I want to, I think. I wish we could.

*

He told me the truth several days after the night on the staircase. His back was straight, his hands soapy with suds from the sink. He held the pot we’d used for dinner suspended in the air, dripping water onto the countertop. He spoke to the window in long, run-on sentences, not pausing for breath, words collecting together like a multi-car pileup. Words about me, about her, about what I meant to him, what she didn’t mean, all the words crushed against each other. Words about what he wanted, what he needed, what he thought. Words pouring out of him, pooling between us, amalgamating and warping into a congealed lump of language. I’d stood behind him, frozen in place, tugged under by the force of him.

*

I unlock our front door quietly, pausing in surprise when I hear voices. They hear the door snick closed and the conversation stops, resumes urgently, dipping to a whisper. I inhale a deep breath and exhale, climbing the stairs to slink, unseen, to bed. 

They’re hovering in the hallway, bodies appearing nearly conjoined from this angle. They look caught, startled in the too-bright light. 

“Hi,” I say, looking between them. I try not to look devastated. I think I fail.

“You’re back,” Noah says, his voice a caress. Harry smiles at me, somehow making it look more like a wince. My sense of betrayal balloons, ugly and unfair. 

We all start speaking at the same time.

“We were just-”

“I didn’t think you’d-” 

“We didn’t mean to-”

We stop, embarrassed, trying to be grownups. 

Harry swallows. “We were just collecting…” He holds up Noah’s wallet, brown leather wrinkled and worn. “We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Oh, you’re - you’re not disturbing me.” It comes out quieter than I mean it to, more intense. I pull emotion back from the surface, forcing my mouth closed.

Harry looks to Noah, apologetic or uncertain, it’s hard to tell. Noah keeps his eyes on me, round and dark. “We’ll go,” he says.

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else, my mind thrumming desperately: stay. 

We sidestep each other, a solemn, heartbroken dance that ends with my back pressed to the wall, my shoulder brushing Noah’s on his way past. I jerk it away, stung, so forceful my body thumps against the wall. I swallow down the pain, eyes burning. Harry looks between us, lips turned inward, hands fluttering at his sides. I can do nothing but blink at them, clutching my elbows, watching them leave together.

It takes me nineteen minutes to peel myself from the wall, to stagger up the stairs. I collapse on our bed, staring at the ceiling long into the night, the occasional tear collecting in my ear. 

I wake early, eyes raw, to a message from Harry. Can we talk?

I squint at the glare of my phone, the time flipping over to twelve minutes past six. I wait an hour to text him back, suggesting we meet at a familiar haunt in town. 

I sit at the usual table, organising the sugar packets and replacing them in the ceramic pot. He arrives ten minutes early, surprised to see me already seated. There’s only one other table occupied, an old man mumbling to himself in the corner.

Harry gets our coffee, placing his down too firmly on the table, foamy milk sloshing over the side. I mop it up with my sleeve, waving away his protests. I take a burning sip of my latte, tasting nothing.

“You can’t do this,” he says finally, frowning at the table.

I study his face. His jaw is set firmly, his teeth clenched, determined. He’s always been handsome, in a gentle sort of way, his hair wavy and dark, his nose giving him a refined, feminine beauty, offset by the sharp line of his cheekbones. 

“Matty.”

“Mm.”

“Come on. You can’t want this.” 

My eye twitches, his words too similar for comfort. This isn’t what I want. “I’m really tired of being told how I feel.”

He shifts in his seat, frustrated. “I’m…” He huffs a sigh. “I just mean - you two have been together so long. We all have. It’ll make things… Are you sure?”

A flash of the night we broke up: bitter, shocked silence, nails digging into my skin. Is this really it? I blink rapidly, eyes on the tabletop, forcing myself back to the present. “I think I am.”

“You think? You don't know?”

I look up in frustration. “Did he tell you? What he did?”

Harry’s eyes cloud over. He shakes his head once, dropping his eyes from mine and cupping his mug. “I don’t need to know the details.” 

I speak over him. “He slept with her.” 

His gaze snaps to my face. “What?”

“Emma.”

He shakes his head, violently, the force of it rattling his whole body. “No.”

“He said he didn’t?”

“He… didn’t tell me.” 

“What did he tell you?”

“Just that - that things had been difficult, that you’d both decided…” 

I snort, shoving my coffee away. It’s too sweet, the oat milk woody in my mouth. 

“But why would - it’s not like him. To do that. It can’t have been…?” He swallows. “I know there was the little… flirtation, but he’d never let it… become…”

This realisation, that Harry was complicit in the secret, keeping me in the dark, not just protecting Noah, but siding with him - it stings like a slap, bringing everything into acute focus. The feeling of something fracturing, being wrenched apart, not by accident, but by deliberate, decisive action, overwhelms me. 

The knot in my stomach tightens. I watch Harry stumble over his words, arms crossed tight over my chest, finding grim satisfaction in seeing his confidence unravel. A small, quiet part of my heart chips off, disappointed.

His mouth sets into a grim line. “I’m sorry, Matty. I didn’t… he didn’t say.” The ‘but’ he doesn’t add hangs in the air between us.“Right,” Harry says, nodding to himself. “That makes things… different.” He sips his coffee, wincing at its temperature. 

He seems changed to me now, this new knowledge throwing his character into sharp relief. Somewhere in all this mess, lines have been drawn, and it’s a shock to find myself pushed to the other side, alone. 

His phone buzzes, and he wrestles it from his trousers, frowning. He audibly inhales when he reads the message, eyes darting back to me.

“What’s wrong?”

He leans forward, suddenly penitent. “I wouldn’t have done this if I had known - ah, fuck. I’m sorry,” he says, his face miserable. Dread creeps into my chest.

“What, Harry? What have you done?” 

“He’s - here. I’m sorry, I-” 

I look up, seeing Noah standing in the cafe doorway, eyes sweeping across the tables, settling on me, something like surprise in his expression. He’s wearing our old university t-shirt, its grey collar loose with wear, the fresher’s logo emblazoned over the left breast. I blink and see him as he was eight years ago, the first time I saw him: his hair shining in the sunlight, head tipped back in laughter, face smooth and freckled, Harry at his side. It’s like all of the tiredness leaves me in an instant, my skin electrified. I unfurl my spine, sitting straighter in my chair as he walks over. My heart begins to beat its familiar old rhythm: Noah, Noah, Noah. 

Noah pulls a chair from another table, wincing as it scrapes across the floor. He sits, hands folded in his lap, eyes on me. “What is this?” he murmurs.

Harry squirms in his chair. “I… okay, I didn’t have all the information,” he shoots Noah a sharp look, “but I thought you guys should talk.” He crosses his arms, defiant, shaking off his remorse. 

I sigh, feeling like I’m pulling breath from my whole body, deflating as I exhale. “Harry.”

Noah rubs his face. “Mate, there isn’t…” he looks at me, pleading, his hand on the table, centimetres from mine. “We’ve said everything we need to.”

I let myself look at him for a searing heartbeat, letting the ache crack my chest wide open. I haven’t, I think, moving my hand away from his. 

Harry shakes his head. “No, come on.” He looks between us, growing desperate. “Is nobody going to say it? He made a mistake, Matty. He’s sorry, alright? You’re sorry - this doesn’t all have to end.” 

I close my eyes. Noah makes a quiet sound next to me, half choked, half gasping. 

“Harry.” Noah speaks like he does to his four-year-old niece; gently, trying to be reassuring. “This doesn’t mean we can’t all still be friends. We still care about each other,” he says, his voice catching. “We just need a bit of time apart.”

I clench my hands into fists to stop them trembling, looking at them both across the table. “Look,” Harry insists. “If you still care about each other, then - then-”

“Please stop,” I whisper. 

He shakes his head in disbelief. “So, what? This is it? A decade of friendship, just over?” His voice takes on a frantic timbre, the sound of a heart breaking. “No.”

“Are you with her?” I ask Noah, surprising us all. 

They blink at me in tandem. “What?” 

“Emma. Are you together?”

He swallows hard, his lovely face transformed into a stranger’s. “I… it was just once. Only the once,” he says, so softly I almost miss it. He looks haunted. “No,” he says, emphatically, when I don’t look away. 

“That’s all there is, Harry,” I tell him. 

Sometime after they’ve left, the waitress appears at my elbow. “Was that your boyfriend?” she asks, piling our mugs onto a tray. I’m not sure which one of them she means, or what the answer is, anyway, so I stay silent. “You look so good together.” 

I fake a smile, unable to respond.

“He obviously loves you a lot,” she says wistfully. “You’re lucky.” She wipes the table half-heartedly, and realising I have nothing to say to her, takes her tray and her rag back behind the counter. 

I sit in the cafe, watching the trees sway outside, a child on a tricycle hurtling along the pavement, a parent trotting several paces behind. A dog sniffs at a lamppost, their owner gesticulating enthusiastically as they speak into their phone. Two women pass by the windows, their eyes alight with laughter, inspecting the piles of sagging pastries on display. They move on, bodies bumping together amicably. I sit alone there, stuck at my table, feeling cleaved in half.