Cuts on his knuckles

Jake has found the note in the kitchen. He saw it just after he called,

“Adam!”

No reply.

A letter, folded four ways.

Opened and read.

Slowly.

“Please don’t be sad.”

He walks into the living room, to the bed, sits slowly, cries slightly.

But briefly.

He knew Adam would leave, he’d said so often enough.

And Jake has always believed it.

And he still does, he knows it will end.

But has it really ended today?

Seven months in his flat, together, since meeting at King’s Cross (is that why he mentioned it in the note?), sitting against the wall, cuts on his face, cuts on his knuckles somehow.

It’s ending, of course.

But not today.

Surely.

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