𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐫. ⁽⁽⁽ᵐᵃᵗᵗʸ ʰᵉᵃˡʸ⁾⁾⁾

no longer an island.*

'I should be knackered, but I'm really not,' Matty sighed, as we got out of the car outside my flat. 'There's no fucking way I can sleep yet.'

'Don't force yourself to then.' I unlocked the front door and flicked on the lights, vaguely aware of the ringing that still persisted in my ears. 'I'll get us something to eat, make yourself comfy.'

He dropped his bag on the floor beside my sofa and planted himself face down on the cushions, letting out a long groan. 'I think I might just sink into this.'

'Not before taking that eyeliner off,' I replied, opening the fridge and staring at its contents.

'Whoops,' he sat up, running a finger gingerly under his eye and inspecting it with a frown. 'You know... I have a guy I can call. Want to get some coke?'

'Oh, I don't know,' I said hesitantly. 'I hate the comedown. I swore it off last year.'

'D'you mind if I get some for myself?'

'Go ahead,' I shrugged. 'I'm cooking.'

Matty made his call, and his 'guy' was quick. As soon as the coke was delivered, he promptly knocked back two lines and came to pester me in the kitchen. My fridge was half empty, and I ended up cracking a couple of eggs into a pan and scrambling them together. He found the smoked salmon I left on the side to add afterwards, peeling back the film on the fish and pulling it apart in fascination.

'It's so weird, isn't it? How weird shit tastes so good,' he rambled at my shoulder.

'Yeah, very weird,' I laughed at him, and his dilated pupils. The sizzle of the pan was soothing and homely after such a decadent night, the smell of the food making my mouth water prematurely. All my senses seemed heightened when I was with Matty, and I wasn't even the one snorting coke. 'I think I need to catch up with you.'

'Go on then.' He cut two more lines on the glassy black surface of his phone and pushed it towards me. Fuck it, my internal monologue insisted, it's an occasion. It's permissible.

The high hit me like a tonne of very pleasant bricks. I went to turn the music up, all care for the neighbours flying out along with my creeping fatigue, and scooped the cooked eggs out of the pan and onto a plate. We ate them with the salmon, and although Matty didn't seem to crave sleep yet, the food on his plate disappeared in barely a minute. His knee rested against mine, the warmth of his body heat creeping through two layers of clothing. He finished eating before me, and I felt his eyes on me as I ate my last couple of mouthfuls.

'Want to see the pictures now?'

'Of course.'

I unpacked my camera, and Matty followed me down to the studio as I loaded the memory card up on the desktop. He stared at the frames as they flickered up on screen, his pupils blown wide.

'Fucking hell, Alma...' he murmured. I liked the way he said my name. He seemed to like saying it too, rolling the sound around in his mouth. It was the sort of name that made people sound hotter when they said it during sex, something I noticed aged nineteen when a boy called Toby moaned it into my ear. Needless to say, I did not return the favour.

I made room for Matty on the seat, and he hovered his hand over the mouse questioningly until I nodded, and he scrolled through my images, back through the last week and into the previous month. He stopped abruptly at a picture of a dark burgundy tile-fronted building, the arched windows opaque with dust and disuse.

'Oh,' he exclaimed, 'is that what I think it is?'

'Depends. What's your guess?'

'It's one of those ghost stations, isn't it? Strand?'