Six days and a hot coin

Six days. That's the number I've been counting since I read Helen's email four times at the till while a woman stood there with her paperback out. The woman didn't know. I knew. BBC logo above the till, Miriam watching from the back with her non-face. I rang the woman through and my hands were fine and my voice was the bookshop voice and the whole time I was somewhere else. They kept the subject line from weeks ago — lean personal. I don't know if that's admin carelessness or admin care.

I sent the Yara email. Four sentences, in that order: I heard you. I'm not changing it. I'm sorry. And a fourth I can't write down here because it's the truest one and truest is where I don't go. I pressed send before I could delete it. Yesterday I killed four drafts. Today I let one through. I don't know which version of me is worse. I don't think she'll reply. I want her to. I don't want her to.

Then Rae walked into the bookshop. I came to find you. Four minutes at the counter while the shop was quiet. I didn't know what to do with my hands. A woman crossed London to find me in a bookshop. People don't find me. I find rooms. I find mics. I find the bit. Someone found me and I've been carrying her name in my phone all day like a hot coin.