“I realised I was overcomplicating it,” I admit.
“That tracks,” she says easily. “You do seem like an overthinker.”
There’s no judgement in it. Just observation.
“I just got back,” I say.
“How was it?”
The question is gentle. Careful. She isn’t asking for details. Just the outcome.
“Broken leg,” I say. “On Helvellyn.”
She exhales softly.
“Is he okay?”
“He will be. He had his five year old son with him. The little guy did so well.”
Another small pause.
“I’m glad,” she says.
I close my eyes briefly, absorbing the quiet sincerity in her voice. She isn’t impressed. She isn’t romanticising it.
She just cares.
“I can practice today,” I say. “If you’re still up for it.”
“I am,” she replies without hesitation. “I finish at five.”
I picture her in the flower shop, sleeves rolled up, hair falling forward as she leans over a workbench.
“I’ll come to you straight after?” she adds.
My eyes drift toward the piano.
“Yeah,” I say. “Any time. I’m off today.”
“Okay.”
The word lands between us, heavier than it should be.
“I’ll see you later, Bambi.”
I huff out a quiet breath.
“See you.”
When the call ends, I stay where I am for a moment longer, phone still in my hand.
Five o’clock.
Too soon and not soon enough.
For the first time in a long time, the waiting doesn’t feel like something to endure.
It feels like something to move toward.