you can't just move on from something like this

a little update and a long story

News first. Unfortunately there’s been another little delay on my collection coming out with Scumbag Press. Martin has a lot of life stuff happening at the moment and I’m so happy for him, glad he’s taking the time for himself. Hopefully ‘Heartbreak is a universal experience but there are so many ways in which things can fall apart’ will be coming out around September, I’ll keep you updated. Also, it’s my birthday tomorrow and it has me feeling all kinds of ways. So as a distraction I thought I’d share of one of my stories. This one is a lot longer than most I’ve released which has made it more or less impossible to home, but I’m proud of it and I’m bored of hoarding my stories, holding out for the possibility of maybe one day someone potentially wanting to publish it. Hope you like it.

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You Can’t Just Move On From Something Like This

Sasha has locked Markus out of the bathroom and is staring at herself in the mirror; eyes open as wide as they can go, head tilted back to inspect her nose ring. She recently read a moving book by Ruth Ozeki who documented a three hour stint observing her own face which had inspired her to inspect her own. Though she barely had five minutes for self reflection these days she wondered, if she truly gave it the time, if she might discover something about herself. 

All she sees is the birthmark just below her right cheek, her slightly wonky teeth— never quite wonky enough to warrant fixing— and her puffy eyelids. If she thought about it long enough that was pretty much a story in itself. She looks at the slight red hue washed across the whites of her eyes and feels a vague notion that her cumulative hangover since the age of fourteen was starting to take its toll on her.

‘You are young’ she tells herself, echoing the voice of her Mother. ‘You don’t need to worry about things like this.’

Her face cleaned and dried Sasha applies a thick elegant line of eyeliner across each eyelid that tapers out towards her temple. She never much cared for full make up, the effort and knowledge it seemed to require, and felt blessed for her clean complexion.

'What kind of thing are we going to tonight?' Markus calls from the other room, the only actual room in their small studio apartment on the outskirts of town. A year ago, after spending a not unpleasant but eventful month and a half living in with their friend Teigan - Just while we look for somewhere of our own - Marcus and Sasha had stumbled upon the single room with a separate bathroom on the third floor of an old building they now call home. After eventually convincing Markus to let his parents sign guarantor agreements, they were handed keys and officially became adults, self reliant, sort of.

'It’s either an exhibition launch or a poetry evening or something at Tyler’s space,' Sasha says, trying herself to remember what was in store for them this evening.

'Tyler’s coming?'

'Well, it’s his place so yes he will be there.' Sasha says. 'Will you put some music on?'

'Sure. That doesn’t mean he will actually show up though, you know. What shall we listen to?'

'Oh, don’t worry actually, I’ll pick something. I’ll be out in a minute. You give him too hard a time you know, he has a lot on.'

'No no no, I’ll find something. I have lost track of how many times I have shown up somewhere to meet him and he has bailed without even telling me. I don’t dislike the guy, don’t get me wrong, it’s just rude y’know? How about Sigur Ros?'

'Put on anything, I really don’t mind.'

By the time Sasha is ready, her eye liner perfectly placed, glitter applied to her cheeks and a bow clipped into her hair, Markus has only just got a song playing.

'Bathroom’s all yours,' she says, emerging from the small room.

Passing each other in the narrow walkway Marcus goes to kiss Sasha but is only able to glance her cheek as she moves. She walks over to the record player and swaps the Sigur Ros record for Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Bookends’. The opening notes of ‘Old Friends’ crackle to life through the speakers as she lights up a cigarette. She notes how strangely content she feels, like this is exactly where she should be in the world, exactly what she should be doing; smoking in a city apartment, listening to Simon and Garfunkel, waiting for her boyfriend to get ready.

Prone to romanticism from an early age, Sasha had never subscribed to the youthful dreams of a perfect wedding or the perfect life, instead imagining her future life as that of an artist, nomadic, following inspiration across the globe. She read biographies and Wikipedia entries of everyone from Warhol to Hemingway, McCartney to Sontag, searching for practices to emulate, milestones to reach for, fuel for the catalyst that would enable her dreams to manifest. Her mother’s attic is full of boxes and boxes of her childhood artwork, photos, musical instruments, once picked up and then abandoned, along with myriad volumes of her diary fastidiously kept and dated since she was eleven. When she moved out her mother floated the idea that Sasha should get rid of some of her old stuff, that maybe her and her step-father needed the space to store their own things, but the idea evaporated the instant her mother saw the look on Sasha’s face: I couldn’t possibly, everything up there is me, my history.

Stepping out of the sash window to perch on the sill, a flash vision of herself falling the three storeys to the ground crosses her mind. Gone again in an instant, almost as if she had never really thought it, a ghost of a thought merely wandering the hallways of her subconscious. Sasha had never been suicidal— despite her teenage tantrums— but she had been haunted by such thoughts, often only in passing, frequently since childhood; stepping in front of the underground train, jumping out of the window, slicing her wrists with a kitchen knife as she prepared dinner.

Looking out over the park out the back of her building, Sasha takes out her phone and frames a photo of a teenage couple holding hands, sailing back and forth together on the swing set. She wonders what their names are, how long they have been together and what they could possibly be talking about. She starts writing a scene in her head about them; a long lost childhood love reunited in their favourite park? An amicable break up? She can’t settle on just one idea and lets the whole thing go. After a little editing and a summery filter she uploads the photo to Instagram and then scrolls through her feed.

A few posts down is a selfie of Markus in their bathroom, posted five minutes before.

'Will you stop taking selfies and get ready, please?' she shouts back into the room, laughing a little. 'Unless, y’know, we just shouldn’t go?'

Markus on average spends 45 minutes in the bathroom, mostly with his vigorous skincare regime but also sculpting the perfect hairstyle, something that looks like he hasn’t put in any effort, yet everything meticulously placed. This is one of the few ways that Markus and Sasha are polar opposites; he cares too much but wants to look like he doesn’t, she doesn’t care and often looks flawless— or, so Marcus tells her. It is a peculiar kind of irony that Markus is fully aware of and yet a practice he cannot stop himself from indulging in.

'We are going Sash,' he replies.

'I know, I’m just saying you don’t have to. I know you don’t exactly like these—'

'I don’t not like them, anyway, it’s important right? You’ve been saying, aren’t you like meeting someone or something?'

'It’s really attractive the way you listen to me Markus.'

Markus sticks his head out from the bathroom, his hair flecked with moose.

'Sash, you know I—'

'I’m kidding.'

'Do you really not wanna go?'

'No, I mean, yes but no, I should go because yes, I invited one of the actors auditioning for the play. Like I said the other day, they were really good but I want to hang out with them a bit first and see if I can actually work with them y’know? And it won’t look good if I don’t show.'

'Then we will go.'

Sasha takes a long draw on the cigarette and exhales, watching the smoke drift away until she cannot see it anymore. She wonders if there was a different phrasing she could have used that would would have made Markus decide not to come with her. It’s not that she doesn’t want to spend time with him, so she tells herself — and occasionally Tyler, after a drink on a bad day— it’s just that she cannot remember the last time they had a good time out together. Occasionally the thought of being alone drifts across her mind and a knot of guilt ties itself round her stomach for indulging the notion of living in a world without him, of living only for herself.

‘Babe?' Markus says, walking back into the room, fully dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, white high-tops and a t-shirt with ‘Art is Dead’ written on it.

'Yeah?'

'What do you think?'

Sasha stubs out her cigarette and carefully climbs off the windowsill, back into the room.

'Of what?'

'How do I look?'

'You look fine, why?'

'Is this shirt, too, I don’t know. Rude?'

'I mean, we are going to an art gallery. But who am I to say what you can or cannot wear?'

'I think people will find it funny. It’s like a statement on the whole thing. Tyler is all about that performance art shit anyway so maybe he will find it funny. Maybe everyone will think I’m a twat? Or a genius? I don’t know?'

'Try not to care too much babe, it's just a tee.' 

'I don’t care, Sash I’m just weighing up the potential outcomes.'

'Alright, shall we go then?'

'It’s still early, let’s hang around a bit.'

'What? No, c’mon let’s go.'

'Not yet.'

'Ugh, why do you always do this?'

'What?'

'You always want to be late, it’s not just accidentally being late, it’s like, you make an effort to be late. You’ve decided to come along, we’re ready, and it’ll start soon, let’s just go yeah?'

'Who else is coming? And when do these things ever get busy?'

'Don’t be mean.'

'Fine.' Markus said. 'Let me just get my things together.'

Markus proceeds to spend twenty minutes looking for his various belongings, a regular ritual that Sasha used to find amusing— 'How can you lose things in this flat, it’s too small to really lose anything.'- but had lost it’s adorable sheen. She bites her tongue stopping herself from accidentally starting another fight which would inevitably delay leaving even further.

Sasha was not sure when their bickering, once playful and flirty, had grown barbs that stung, that occasionally left a mark for days, but she knew how to read the atmosphere in the small room and when to say nothing. Though she might have started it, she didn’t want another fight. She had promised herself they wouldn’t turn out like her parents. 

Markus sweeps through the flat collecting his keys, his camera, and wallet and then they were ready to leave. Sasha pulls her bag off the corner of the one door in the flat and they walk out together into the cool and calm evening, the sky a backlit clean blue cloth hanging over everything, the warmth of the day yet to fully dissipate.

'Have you ever noticed how twilight goes on for hours around here?' Sasha says.

'Yeah,' Markus says, 'I almost can’t remember the last time it actually felt like night.'

As they walk through the park which separated their home from the city, fairy lights hanging in the trees along the pathway, Sasha remembers the park her and Markus grew up near. 

During their early days together Sasha had often found Markus to be somewhat of a puzzle. He was confident and insecure all at the same time, intellectual yet prone to stupidity and would often zone out entirely, and when asked what he was thinking of, rarely coming back with an answer. Having not been blessed with the same level of self conviction as Sasha, Markus had spent most of his early life trying on different personalities, hiding or overblowing aspects of his true self to fit with whichever group he was with at the time, attempting to figure out who he was supposed to be. On summer evenings, young and invincible in their fledgling love, they would meet at what they estimated to be the centre of the grass wasteland between their houses and lie down for hours, staring at the sky. Markus would interlock his hand with Sasha’s, their fingers like a tightly tied shoelace, and the artifice of his projected self would dissipate. Sasha would tilt her head and study the look of fascination and wonder on his face as he looked up at the stars.

'Doesn’t it blow your mind that some of these lights, these stars, have already died?' Markus said one evening. 'They no longer exist and yet, their light, the one marker of their existence that you and I can measure, still shines on.'

It was then that Sasha had rolled over and onto Markus in the middle of the park, kissed his neck softly and whispered ’I love you’ for the first time.

Sasha thinks about that night often, more often of late; she staged it in her mind like one of her plays, and the memory of their youthful bliss rises up in her heart. More and more lately Sasha has found herself taking emotional refuge in the past, looking for reminders of how she felt, her brain too clouded to be certain of anything in the present. She takes Markus’ hand in hers as they cross the road and gently squeezes it hoping quietly that the gesture still had the power it had that night in the dewey grass.

After acquiring a short term lease on an old shut down carpet store at the end of East Street, Tyler and three of his friends had set up a DIY art gallery. On the shop front window Tyler had sprayed ‘Support local artists’ with fake snow-in-a-can, the only indication of what was happening within the bare brick walls.

Sasha and Markus found Tyler tucked inside the door sat on a deck chair with his feet up on a flimsy popup table talking to a young looking boy with a Polaroid round his neck and an iPad under his arm. The boy is standing nervously, shifting in his moccasins, skinny jeans, a waistcoat over the top of a clean white polo shirt.

'It means whatever it means to you,’ Tyler says. 'Truth, at least artistic truth, is universal, as long as it is honest.'

'Is Tyler ever not performing?' Markus says, whispering to Sasha as they slip passed him, making their way to the first piece.

'Don't start, please.'

A woman, mid twenties based on the artist placard at her feet - Katherine ‘KITTY’ Reid,  1991- Forever. Untitled Performance Piece - is standing against the wall, hands by her side, wearing black jeans and a long white t-shirt. Overhead a small projector had been suspended from he ceiling, casting a video of a small child curled up on the floor, crying. onto Kitty's chest who stands perfectly still while interacting with the guests.

'Hi, how are you today?' she says in a highly animated, almost frantically happy voice, looking directly at Sasha. 'Hello?'

'Hi,' Sasha says. 'How’s it going?'

'Oh, you know me, always here there and everywhere. I’ve had such a crazy couple of months I’m telling you. So firstly my blog has really gotten some traction and I feel like people are finally starting to listen to what I have to say y’know? Anyway—‘

‘Oh that’s—‘

‘— I met this really cute guy on Tinder last week and we’ve already been on a few dates so that is great, you know everything is just so great right now. I’ve got three different party invites tonight alone and it’s just impossible to choose which one to go to y’know. Unless, unless I got an Uber from the first to the second and then walked to the last one, it’s only round the corner, I could see everyone then, all my friends, I’m so blessed. I haven’t seen some of them in so long, that’s the trouble being blessed with so many friends and important things to do, how can you possibly fit them all in? Not that I’m complaining, my life is amazing right now honestly. Anyway, I must get on. Have a good evening.'

The girl stops talking but does not move, the projection of a crying child continuing to play in a loop on her chest. Sasha understood Kitty’s blank stare just above her head as the end of the piece, a cue to move on, but, enraptured by what she had just seen she makes no indication of moving on.

'What’re you doing?' Markus says.

'Huh?'

'It’s over, let’s move on.'

'You can’t just move on from something like this,' Sasha says. 'I just need a little time to process.'

Markus walks off suddenly without saying anything and for a moment Sasha worries she had said something wrong, that is until she sees, out the corner of her eye, Tyler sneaking up on her like a Pink Panther cartoon.

'Ahhhh, you weren’t supposed to turn round,' he says.

'I’m sorry,' Sasha says, pretending to having ruined a joke she was in on.

Tyler flings his arms around her and she eventually reciprocates, the awkwardness of moment overpowering her.

Sasha had met Tyler almost immediately after starting University. In the first few months she made an effort to attend every art show, open mic night or local gig venue she could. She wanted to bathe in the culture, to find new people who would share her passion for creativity. After years of living in the cultural wasteland of her hometown she found herself intoxicated by the possibility that came with every evening, every new venue. It became such a huge part of her life, existing in that bubble, that she was out almost every single night; most nights Markus would accompany her but he had slowly became bored with certain places and even more so with certain people— his own interests pulling him more towards the musicians and bands that shared the scene— and his attendance began to wane.

Tyler had always been a little different from everyone else Sasha met, which only drew her to him all the more. The first night they met had been at an open mic night in a small pub down a back road. Most of the performers that evening had been nervous comics or depressed singer songwriters with very little to differentiate one from the next. When Tyler took the stage, dressed all in black, a pair of mirror lens aviators resting on the bridge of his nose, he was almost invisible aside from the glare of the single spotlight reflecting off the glasses.

He spoke in a quiet, delicate, yet confident voice and told a story about when, as a child, he had found a dead body. The details of the story remain clear in Sasha’s mind even now, all this time later. He had been cycling in the woods with his friends, making their way to the dirt jumps that some older kids had made one summer. They were riding fast, giddy off the freedom of a long summer and a set of wheels. Tyler, ahead of the pack, looked back to throw some insults at his friends when something stopped the bike, but not him. He glided through the air with the grace of a duck trying to land on water with only one working wing and then hit the ground. The exact phrase he had used was ‘like a well loved but mistreated rag doll.’ His friends lagging behind all had time to stop before hitting what they immediately recognised as a deceased, forty year old man in a pool of his own dried blood, a knife still in one hand and huge gouges out of his arms.

While Tyler described the scene a few people had gotten up and left, appalled that their high, their potential joy for the evening, had been cut short, killed off by the bleak reality of a man taking his own life in a wood.

One man shouted out ‘Tell us a joke, this isn’t your therapy session.’

When Tyler finished, Sasha made her way over to him and introduced herself. She told him how moved she had been by his story and asked him his reasons for sharing such a dark story at an open mic night. He told her that he was glad it moved her and hoped the fact that the story was not true didn’t diminish the affect. 

'It’s not true?'

'Not a word of it.'

'Do you act?'

'Only when I’m alone.'

'Do you want to be in my play?' She had said, almost giddy with the discovery.

'Sure.'

And with that the two began working together, becoming fast friends, creators in arms, artists, their friendship fast tracked by close proximity and the regular exorcism of emotion that was their rehearsals.

'Thank you for coming,' Tyler says, breaking the embrace.

'Wouldn’t miss it,' she says, a little on edge with the lie, nervous that somehow he would figure out that until half an hour ago she had had every intention of missing it. 

'My angel,' Tyler says before walking to the other end of the room, to a different artsy looking boy with a different artsy camera. 

Sasha finds Markus standing in front of another exhibit. 

'Notice how he didn’t come say hi to me?'

'He’s busy, I’m sure he will later.'

'Busy trying to pick up young artsy fuck boys.'

'Don’t be like this. It’s not attractive.'

'God knows I can’t afford to be any less attractive.'

'Ugh, I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,' Sasha says, the exasperation like poison on her tongue. 'Go see how many likes you have on that selfie and then come back when you feel better about yourself.'

Markus walks away with a dramatic huff, gently brushing Sasha’s arm with his own as he goes. Sasha turns back around to see that the person behind the exhibit was looking at her.

'Um, ouch?' they say.

'Sorry,' Sasha says. 'Didn’t mean for you to hear that, wasn’t even supposed to say it out loud.'

'No, tell him how you feel bitch, head on. I like that. I’m Jenny,' she said, extending a hand.

'Sasha.'

'Well Sasha, you’ve made pretty much the best first impression I’ve ever been a party to, so, thanks for being memorable.'

Loosely draped in a large screen printed tee that reads 'My milk is not for you,' Jenny unsettles something in Sasha; an intensity in her eyes that is at odds with her smile, as her handshake lingers just a fraction too long for comfort. Laid out on a table in front of her, covered in a gingham cloth like a summer fete in a country town, are various incongruous items; a lipstick, a film camera, four wallets, seven pairs of sunglasses, three paperback books with bookmarks in them, a single trainer and a scarf. Each one had a small handwritten note placed in front. 

In front of one of the wallets, a Pokemon velcro fastened one, the note reads: ‘UNKNOWN, Bakerloo Line 13.6.19.’ 

A copy of ‘A Visit From The Good Squad’ by Jennifer Egan: 'Blonde girl at the bar. The morning After. 23.6.20.’

'What are these?' 

'Fragments of my history,' she says.

'Is that what it’s called or what it is?'

'Either, both. Neither.'

'Are these stolen?'

'I prefer to think of them as mementoes, liberated without approval.'

Sasha takes a moment to look at each item in detail, the back of her mind trying to work out the story of each acquisition. Her mind drifts to the people, the original owners, wondering how they must have felt to find their items gone, how this girl had snuck them away undetected and how could she turn any of these hypothetical scenes into a story. She was never not thinking about the story.

Across the room, Markus is stood in front of another exhibit.  Sasha excuses herself from Jenny who is still talking as Sasha walks away and over to Markus. She takes his hand in hers, kisses him on the cheek, and together they observe the exhibit: a large segment of the wall plastered with receipts.

'Deodorant, mints, condoms and a Tobelerone? Someone was planning a very fancy date,' Markus says. 

'What was this person going to do with ten Kilograms of raisins?' Sasha says.

Markus staring intently at his phone, tweeting what he had just said, attaching a photo of the artwork, mumbles a reply. Sasha bites her tongue as she watches Markus shifting to messenger, frantically replying to several different people at once, telling jokes, setting up plans, discussing various happenings all over town.

Sasha’s mind drifts. Trying to think back, to pinpoint the time when Markus’ approach to these events shifted. When they first came he would always come to galleries and open mic nights with her and be, at least it seemed to her, engaged. He had admitted once that he always felt a little out of place at these kinds of things with her but he still showed up.

As time went on he became visibly less enthused; a shoulder shrug or deep sigh when agreeing to come along, the question ‘how long is it?’ asked more and more frequently, prompting more bickering and occasionally a fully blown argument appearing out of nowhere like an iceberg ready to sink them. She worried, more often that she liked to admit, if he was just growing tired of the scene or if he was growing tired of her. 

'I love you,' Sasha says, her tone sounding more questioning than she would have liked. 

'Love you too,' Markus says, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He takes Sasha’s pinky between thumb and forefinger and squeezes: a code they had created long ago when Sasha’s anxiety had been particularly bad first year of University but morphed into their own everyday language system.

Index finger: Do you need rescuing (usually used when someone will not stop talking)

Ring Finger: Everything is fine.

Pinky finger: I want to leave.

Sasha interlocks her fingers with his and tries to bring herself back into the moment, turning away from the wall of receipts.

'We only just got here,' she says, trying to hide her irritation.

'Do you mind?' he says. ‘Thinking I’ll go by The Hive, see Thomas and—‘

'Can’t you stay for a bit?'

’I’ve already said I’ll go,' Markus says. ‘And you didn’t really want me to come anyway.’ 

‘That’s not. Fine.’ Sasha says with a sigh. 'Do what you want, just—'

Before she could find an end to her sentence Tyler bounces over asking her where Sasha has been, taking her by the arm and walking her away.

'Be back in a minute,' he says to Markus, turning his head as they walk away. 'Sasha, there’s someone here I absolutely must introduce you to.'

'Actually, wait, I was just—'

'I don’t wanna be a dick,' Tyler says, his catchphrase that invariably prefixed him being a dick. 'But, why do you always bring him to these things?'

'Markus?'

'Yeah.'

'Because he’s my boyfriend.'

'Still, is that an excuse?' Tyler said with a bitchy raise of his eyebrows. He had a knack for saying things in the exact right way to burrow under a persons skin.

Sasha was unsure of the question, for the entirety of their relationship they had always been together, she couldn’t imagine making plans and not extending an invitation to Markus, they were a unit; growing up if he weren’t there, people would come and ask where he was, what he was doing. For the longest time Sasha felt that Markus was the one people truly wanted to see, that she was an adage to his presence. Markus was often the heart of any party or gathering.

After moving to the city with her for University it had been Markus that coaxed Sasha out of her shell, out of the flat. He would bring her along to parties and invite her whenever he went for drinks with people from work.

‘My friends are your friends.’

‘They don’t even know me.’

‘But they know me, and they trust my taste in people.’

'I’m not just going to not invite him because you two have a weird thing,' Sasha says.

'It’s not a weird thing, he’s just not my kind of person. Maybe it is a weird thing, but he’s the thing. Everyone thinks he’s a little— wait, does he not like me or something?'

'Why does that mater, you clearly don’t like him?'

'That’s not the point at all. I’ve done nothing wrong.'

'Neither has he. Wait, what do you mean, ‘everyone thinks he’s a little’ a little what?'

'Nevermind. Look,'

Tyler skips the last couple of steps over to a middle aged guy with George Clooney hair; he is dressed in boat shoes, chinos and a faded band t-shirt under a chord blazer. He looked like every hipster lecturer from an art school, holding a notebook, a pen sticking out the top of his breast pocket and horn-rimmed glasses on a chain around his neck. There is something familiar about him too, something Sasha can’t quite place, nor brush off.

'Sash, this is Mike. Mike, Sasha. I’ve been trying to get you two to meet for a while.'

'Really?' Sasha asks, a little more dismissively than she had intended. 'Not to be rude to you Mike, but—'

'Oh no, it’s quite alright,' he says. 'I’ve been a fan of your work for some time now after a student showed me one of your videos, anyway, when I mentioned this to Tyler he told me he knew you and got all excited about making this introduction. You know what he’s like.'

She does, at least she thought she did. Tyler was supposed to be her best friend, they worked closely together most days, he was the one to answer the phone late at night when she needed to vent and Markus was asleep. He knew everything about her. But sat here with this stranger, thinking about it, Sasha realises that Tyler may know everything about her, but does she actually know anything about him? Though he was an excitable personality, there had never been a moment when she would use the word ‘excited’ to describe his demeanour; he was a master of sarcasm and passive aggressive pleasantries, excited only by drama and gossip. He told stories, mostly of other people, rarely about himself and the ones he did share, were often fabricated. Tyler only ever did someone a favour if it could somehow help him. He was one of her closest friends but she had to admit, Markus was correct in noting Tyler’s penchant for self interest and social climbing.

'I’ll leave you two to it.'

'Hang on,' she calls after Tyler.

'Talk soon Sash.'

Sat in the corner of the gallery with Mike, Sasha listens as he tells her about his job, a local college teacher and writer. He talks all about seeing her plays, praising them and her specifically. She was often uncomfortable with compliments with and falls into her default of blushing, smiling and saying thank you. Most of the time Mike is talking, she is thinking about Tyler’s comment, about the ‘everyone’ who had something against Markus. Her mind spinning an intricate conspiracy of hatred and backstabbing that, she is alarmed to realise, was far too believable. How well did she really know her friends? The image she had of herself, of her relationship with Markus, and their place in the world began to falter. Had her venting given Tyler, and by extension others, the wrong impression of her relationship? Of Markus? 

When Sasha first became involved with the drama scene and its characters she had spent a significant amount of energy defending them to Markus. One evening a few months, maybe a year, ago after a particularly awkward after-party following a decidedly more awkward play Markus had spun on the spot before flinging himself down on the bed, the crook of his arm draped across his face. 

'Oh I do hope that you understand the satire of a living being darling,' he said affecting his voice like Cruella De Ville.

'She didn’t talk like that,' Sasha said, laughing—though trying to hide it a little. She felt bad, gossip always made her nervous but the city basically ran on it. Everyone was sleeping with someone, cheating on someone, had a vendetta with someone, and though no one talked about it, everyone knew. Whenever Marcus told her something, for he always seemed to know, her mind would spin with that thought that if she was talking or joking about someone, there must be someone out there joking about her.

‘Everyone talks like they think they’re a genius.’

'That’s not fair. They’re nice people,’ she said, but now she wasn’t so sure.

'So, what do you think?' Mike says, and Sasha realises that she has no idea what is being asked of her. Embarrassed, she tries to think of the most non-committal response she can to keep the conversation flowing, hoping to piece it all together again later.

'Interesting,' she says.

'You weren’t listening were you?'

'Umm, no, sorry I was just-'

'Haha, that’s okay. I often get like that when I have an idea for a story or something, all the time drifting off to the world you’re creating in your head. We’re drifters you and I that’s why I have such a good feeling about you, always thinking of the craft. I’m looking to adapt one of my novels to the stage and I think you’d be a perfect companion for the project, that’s all, give it some thought.' Mike says, placing his hand on her thigh delicately, with a rehearsed caution that let’s Sasha know he has been in trouble for such actions before. She moves her leg out from beneath his clammy hand and crosses her legs, a rehearsed action of her own, one she was exhausted from from having to use so often. 'I think it would be wonderful for my class to meet you,' Mike continues, trying to smooth the situation over without drawing attention to the crack. 'And I would certainly revel in the chance to see you again, to listen to any pearls of wisdom I’m certain you’ll have to share.'

Sasha winces at the use of such a cliche, by a supposed writing teacher too, but agrees to think it over and excuses herself. 

'Can I borrow you for a minute,' Sasha says, grabbing Tyler’s upper arm sharply.

'The pains of being in demand,' Tyler says to his audience. 

'What’s up girl? So you gonna do it?’

‘What?’

‘Mike?’

‘What the fuck?’

‘No, not the fuck, though you could try I guess, if that’s your thing. The job. Didn’t he ask you?’

‘What, no,’ she said, though she couldn’t be entirely sure he hadn’t. ‘Whatever, look, what did you mean earlier, about Markus?'

'Oh what does it matter,' Tyler said with a flick of his hand. 'This is a party, don’t bring it down babe.'

'Don’t do that, it does matter to me. You’re supposed to be my friend.'

'I am Sash, I am. But that doesn’t mean I have to like Marcus.'

'I know that, but it’s not not liking him is it, it’s—'

'I just think you could do better girl, I—'

'You don’t even know him.'

'Are we really doing this, now? It’s my night.'

'Every night is ‘your night’,' Sasha says, a little meaner than she would have ever been had her nerves not been so on edge. 

'Okay, I guess we are,' Tyler says, planting his feet squarely, crossing one arm across his chest, the other hand up. 'One,' he begins, illustrating the point with his thumb. 'He’s rude. Two, he looks down his admittedly beautiful nose at all of us,' he says, gesturing his arm around the room. 'And he just doesn’t understand you, not the way you deserve. You deserve someone who matches your level, intellectually, stimulates you artistically. Someone who gets you. You’ve outgrown him Sash, time to move on.’

'Marcus,' Sasha started but trailed off, so stunned by the barrage of Tyler’s opinions she could hardly think. The knot of guilt tightened around her stomach again, reminding her of its presence. There was something different, more potent, about hearing the words she had wondered to herself— inside the safety of her own mind— vocalised by someone else that made them feel sharp and ugly. Sure, she had thought about being alone, or about who she could be with instead, about what kind of life she could have with someone different, someone more like her. And lately, with the bickering, Sasha had wondered if she had if they really had much in common anymore. 

Confronted with these thoughts again now Sasha realised how ill fitting any of her potential futures were, and how bleak her present could have been without Markus. They had always been each others fiercest supporters, it’s just somewhere along the way they, maybe it was just her, had forgotten that. She felt like she had been thrown into a bramble patch, unable to move without injury. Her fingers felt cold but sweat beaded in the fold of her armpit. Her mind raced through a thousand scenarios at a frightening speed, trying to summon the thing she needed to say, to end the conversation, her flight instinct kicking back in. She wished she had listened to herself earlier, relented and let Marcus talk her out of coming. He hadn’t talked her into it though, he’d supported her decision to go. She should have left with him. She didn’t want this information in her brain, this acidic conversation would loop and loop forever in the back of her mind burning a whole into her relationships with both Tyler and Marcus. 

'It’s okay girl, we all hold on to things we shouldn’t sometimes,' Tyler said. ‘You just gotta move on.’

'I have to go,' she said, talking over him.

Head down, half rushing to the door half trying not to draw attention to herself Sasha walks cleanly into the Jenny, dropping her bag and phone.

'Oh shit, shit shit shit.'

'Don’t worry,' Jenny says, kneeling down to help her. She picks up Sasha’s phone and looks it over. 'Not a scratch,' she says. 'You lucky thing. I had one a while back, it fell off this really rather short moroccan table in this hookah place down the road from Brick Lane in one of the little cafes y’know that doesn’t look like anything much at all, anyway, six inches no more. Shattered. Completely fucked. I was livid because it wasn’t even my fault but anyway—'

'Thanks, I really must get going and—'

'It was nice talking to you earlier. You seem interesting.'

'Thanks, but I uh—'

'Will you be around much longer, I’d love to ask you something but I can see someone over there making eyes at me and I uh, don’t turn around. Look I’ll be over—'

'No, sorry I really have to leave, like now,' Sasha says.

'Oh totally, but yeah, I’ll catch you somewhere or something-'

'Yeah sure, bye, sorry, I’m sorry.'

Sasha turns to leave but Jenny grabs her arm and spins her back round, holding her close in a hug that, even if she hadn’t been in the grips of a panic attack, lingered weirdly.

Making a rush for the door she needs to be with Markus, if she could just see him, be in his presence then she will be grounded again. She considers walking but thinks better of it; it’s too dark to make it across the park alone. She opens her phone to book an uber and sees a message from Marcus— At hive, Niamh says you should come over. Hope you’re having fun. xx. Uber booked, she waits around the corner. Across the street she sees a young couple lit by harsh floodlights outside the parking lot— can’t be older than 18, squabbling like four or five year olds, gently pushing each other and mocking each other’s voices all the while smiling, occasionally kissing each other— shining out in the dark almost as if on a stage. Sasha watches them, making mental notes, trying to pin down the general aura they have surrounding them. She remembers times where she and Markus would bicker like this over dinner plans or their opinions on a movie. For a brief moment it calms her, extracting endorphins vicariously from the young couple. Not every fight was the end. It was going to be okay.

A second wave of panic takes hold of her when, in the backseat, Sasha reaches into her bag to find her notebook missing. Emptying the entire contents out onto the seat next to her— purse, keys, glasses, three pens, cigarettes, half a pack of mints, a crumpled mass of receipts, a lighter— she frantically searches but her notebook is gone. Sasha cracks her knuckles, then taps each of her fingers individually against her thumb, walking back through her evening trying to remember the last moment she had it in her hands: In the flat, clasped in one hand reading over old dialogue notes, a burning cigarette in the other. Did she take it out of the flat? She was never without it, so the idea of leaving it behind didn’t feel right to her, but in that moment she couldn’t be sure. He mind flashes with images of her carrying it round the gallery, but they feel more like wishes than memories.

Her phone vibrates in her hand

—Hey, its Ana. Did I just see you leave?'

'Fuck,’ she says, out loud spooking the driver. ‘Sorry.’

She had completely forgotten to talk to the young actor who had come to the gallery purely to meet her. Her heart beats faster, her hands become clammy and she starts to feel trapped, caught between wanting to turn the car around, head straight back to apologise, and resigning herself to the fact that there was nothing she can really do and to just ride it out. Markus would calm her down. She just needs to see him. Everything will be okay then, one problem at a time. She thinks about what he would say to her, if he were here, trying to preempt his advice in order to give it to herself. 

'Count all the different colours you can see,' he’d told her once. 'Take a deep breath after each colour.' 

Sasha was unsure if it was the regulated breathing or the counting that worked but whenever she got to ten she would always be significantly calmer. She leans back in her chair, staring out the window at the buildings and shop fronts passing: maroon, white, grey, turquoise, bright red, orange, brown, black, yellow, green.

Sasha climbs out of the Uber and she can hear the deep baritone of Markus’ laugh. She follows his voice through the house forcing an awkward smile at the people she passes, her brain unable to focus on anyone’s face enough to know if she knows them.

In the garden Markus is holding court with a few people, mid story, waving his hand around wildly, a thin trail of smoke in its wake. Niamh catches Sasha’s eye over Marcus’ shoulder and tilts her head up in recognition.

‘Sash came,’ she says with a tone of excitement that crossed over to disbelief.

Marcus turns around and skips across the small garden to embrace Sasha.

'You came,' he says with genuine excitement. Sasha’s heart is beating so fast, her limbs jittering, that Marcus can feel the tension in her shoulders through her coat. 'Are you okay? Did something happen?' Markus says pulling back from the embrace to look in her eyes.

Sasha wonders how much to tell him, what level of honesty the moment calls for. She really wishes there weren’t so many people at the house, so many ears that could hear. One word too many could power the rumours for months.

'Did I have my notebook with me tonight?' She says.

'Yeah, it was on the side at home so I put it in your bag before you left so you didn’t forget it.'

'Oh,' Sasha says, overwhelmed with the battle between cold fact that her notebook must truly be lost swirling inside her with the warm sensation ignited by Marcus’ thoughtfulness. 'It’s gone. I don’t know how but I’ve lost it. All those notes, all my ideas, I don’t know what I’m going to do, it’s everything I’m working on, it’s—'

'Hey,' Marcus says, shuffling over to a corner of the garden, away from the others, and then pulling her close. 'Hey, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.'

'I feel so stupid,' Sasha says. 'Crying over a notebook.' Though she wasn’t completely certain that was what had triggered the tears. The firmness of Markus’ hug sparks a fresh memory in Sasha’s mind, of the embrace from Jenny. As if reliving it she feels the weight of Jenny’s hand in her bag. Her notebook. She realises Jenny must have stolen it for her collection, but Sasha had been in such a rush to escape the room she hadn’t registered the theft. Sasha’s heart drops as the panic rises again. 

'It’s not stupid,' Markus says, leaning away to look Sasha in the eyes. 'And it’s not just a notebook, its a part of you, it’s your thoughts, your mind, your heart in paper form. I get it. Remember what you said when you lost that story back in college?'

'What?'

'You said, ‘If it was really meant to be, it’ll come back to me.’ Nothing is truly lost.’

'How do you remember that?' Sasha says.

'Who are you talking to Sash?' He says with a light chuckle.

'I’m sorry,' Sasha says.

'What’ve you got to be sorry for?’ Markus says, confused. But she doesn’t answer him. She pulls him close again and feels like she might never let go. The evening had already taken one thing from her, she wouldn’t let it take another.

THE END