Page 16 of Before You Say Goodbye

* * *

Autumn barely slept and, without sexual endorphins to wake her up, getting out of bed was a real effort. She felt groggy and disgusting. She wasn’t sure what time she’d eventually fallen asleep, but she knew she’d spent several hours crying into her pillow before eventually succumbing. She was embarrassed about that, but trying, with real effort, to give herself a break. She had always been honest with herself about the way she was feeling and didn’t think she should be exceptionally cruel to herself because of the silly way her heart had behaved and how it had left her reeling. She should let herself cry if she needed to. It wasn’t as though she was being unnecessarily dramatic. She had good cause to be upset — she felt utterly alone. She’d thought those days were over. She wanted a hug, which was most unusual. It was almost torturous enough a feeling to wish she had never opened up in the first place, to Bluebell or to Bowie. Before she had known either of them existed, she’d been fine. Now, it seemed she was the same as most other people — her happiness relied at least a little bit on the way people treated her.

She pulled on a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and a pair of pumps. She hadn’t had chance to eat much since the piece of cake she’d shared with Bowie and she was starving. She decided to head to a café, grab herself a coffee and a sandwich, and sit ona window seat and write. Today was about self-care and this was her favourite thing to do. She knew it would make her feel better.

Getting there took every ounce of energy she had and felt like an extreme effort, but she was feeling much better by lunchtime. She’d spent several hours consumed by writing her second book. Intricate sentences flowed freely from her fingertips and she hardly thought of anything except the world she was creating, seemingly from nowhere. She paused only to marvel at the gift she had been given and how much it had done to help her. She’d been using it to escape reality since she had been a child, creating the most wonderful friends for herself, and, as she did, forgetting the pain that came with living in the real world. It had helped her ignore how little she was loved. It had helped her pretend she was not alone.

She paused in the early afternoon to write a poem, something she had not done in a while. Writing novels came easily to Autumn, no matter what mood she was in, but poems were different. She had to be feeling very strongly about something to pull words together in a way that made sense as poetry. She switched from writing on her laptop to a trusty pen and paper and, without much thought, wrote down the way she was feeling. She re-read it, crossed a few things out, then re-read it again.

You’ll never be mine outside of my mind and that’s all right with me.

I long too strongly to own your gaze.

I’m quite sure that you’re sweeter than a spring blue sky, but skies split sometimes,

and I already know I couldn’t weather the thunder.

If you were to love me with any less strength than that of a raging sea, it would destroy me.

So stay in my head, where I’m safe from your wide-eyed indifference.

Live in my imagination.

Save me the bitterness of your disinterest.

And I’ll plead with a star,

to keep the wonder of your universe,

far from me.

My perfect friend, my fanciful lover, may we never meet again beyond fantasy.

It needed work, but she was quite happy with what she had written. Apparently she was as inspired by heartbreak as everybody else seemed to be.

She didn’t think to check her phone in the morning or early afternoon, but glanced at it at around three o’clock. There was still nothing from Bluebell. This was the longest she’d gone without speaking to her friend. She felt her stomach twist with worry and stared, despondently, around the café. She could try to ignore it, but the real world was there: big, empty and waiting for her.

She felt, very suddenly, as though she needed sleep.

* * *

Autumn was so distracted by exhaustion she almost missed the note tied to the railing at the bottom of her staircase. She was on the third step when she spotted it, fluttering hopefully in the ever-present hallway draught. As she was untying it, her neighbour and landlord, Walter, emerged from his flat. He feigned surprise to see her but had, quite obviously, been waiting for her.

“A young man knocked on my door earlier and asked me for a pen,” he said.

“Oh,” Autumn said. “Thanks.”

She untied the note and guarded it with her hand, stepping pointedly up onto the first step. Walter was nosy enough to ask her what it said if she read it in front of him. It had to be from Bowie. Anyone else would have texted her. She started to climb.

“I’ve read it.” Walter blurted out the words.

She stopped, turned, and stared at him.

“I’m sorry.” He grinned. “I couldn’t help myself. I don’t know why he didn’t put it under your door.”

She was horrified.

“Don’t ever read my post again, Walter.”

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