Love letters torn to ragged shreds fall like confetti from the high-up window. Behind net curtains a misted shape, a hand.
John picks up ‘love’ and ‘always’ from the mud. Not his writing, is it? He flattens them smooth between his palms and slides them into his breast pocket. The veiled shape is still behind the curtain. The paper snow is thinning.
John’s hands are red and cold and the rain is starting again. He’ll away now, he thinks, while he still can, the words safe, next to his heart.
They embrace clumsily and he turns away. As he walks down the first flight of stairs he hears the door close. He does not look back. Instinctively, from force of habit, he puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out his phone. Two flights. Three. No messages in the last two hours. Five flights. Six. He pauses on the mat and breathes out, presses the exit button and pushes the door open onto the night. Cold air sweeps in.
He steps out and his phone vibrates. Another step and he turns and looks up at her window. Her silhouette is there. He breathes again and looks down at his phone.