He’s nothing left here.
The light thrown back in thick, glossy white streaks by a front door newly painted black, glinting in windows and dull against their frames, sucked up by the tarmac and the paving stones… it’s not warming.
“But it’s beautiful,” he thinks.
When he returns here years from now that black door will be peeling and wanting attention, like the paint on the window frames, he thinks.
“When I come back I’ll be a stranger,” he thinks.
And he turns into Euston Road and the traffic is noisy.
Seven months’ belongings aren’t much weight on his left shoulder.
Saying goodbye to a lover isn’t much weight to bear either. He’s never there when it happens.
When Jake comes back he’ll find the note.
It’s time. I’m looking out the kitchen window and see a train pulling into King’s Cross and I can see people inside. It makes the kitchen feel small, all at once, and the bedroom too. I told you I’d leave. Thank you for taking me in.
Please don’t be sad.