Tweetie

62

"Archie, are you still at the station?"

"Yeah, is there something wrong?"

"Well, kinda," Robin shrank into the couch, the buzz of usual life missing from the apartment.

The sounds of old wood creaking weren't acknowledged, nor were the cars that passed by on the street below. They were there, the apartment still smelled of dust, paper and a lingering undertone of coffee drank too often from an unrealised addiction. The writing was still on the wall, as red as it was when she first saw it.

"I need to talk to you about something. Could you come back to the apartment?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll come now." He stopped talking, and everything began to muffle as he pressed his phone to his shoulder and another voice spoke. "Roderick offered me a lift, he said he has to talk to you. I'll be there in ten minutes, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed, "thank you."

The call ended and the phone dropped from her hand and to the ground at her feet.

Was she ready to tell him? What if he responded badly? What would she do once it was done?

She knew she needed to confront the problem, deal with it and not run away from it like she wanted to. But, she needed a plan. An idea to follow so she knew how to word herself. What if she messed up? What if she ruined everything? The thoughts wouldn't stop. They kept piling up and up and she could only think to stand from the couch and pace in the hopes that she would ease even a little.

The apartment was cold. Lifeless. Empty with a missing coffee table and a torn-up couch, leaving only one smaller one in its place.

Nothing else had moved, the dust that gathered from the fallen stacks of files and paperwork had finally settled onto every surface like a coat of grey paint. The place felt so empty, it felt like there was nothing there for her anymore. Like a home once loved forgotten to age and decay. The floors were old, the furniture was second hand, but it felt like it was never really hers. It felt like once, the love she had for it was due to the excitement of a free life, a free home. But when she saw it, finally seeing the whole picture of tiny shattered pieces coming together, it was never really hers. It was never really her. It was work. Like an office, a plain, empty hollowed-out space made for the sole purpose of work and focus. It was never hers, not really.

The usual smell of coffee had faded to nothing more than a lingering trail of a scent, and now all that remained was the smell of old paper and, of course, dust. She could hear her feet tap, but that was all. No sounds emitted from the apartment, none that she cared to notice.

She lowered herself and picked her gifted phone back up, taken from a charitable boy who offered it when her own was lost. Her fingers trembled as she went through her contacts. Why was she so scared? What of? The truth or him? She knew he hated her new life, the one with a group of people she loved dearly. He didn't trust them. She hoped he would take it well.

Then, she dropped the phone again, shaking her head as she went in circles. She wanted a distraction, but, she didn't at the same time.

Instead, she dropped onto the couch and stared at the ceiling.

There were marks, stains she would never reach. Hell, there was even coffee up there... she had no clue how. Was it from the time she had accidentally flipped a cup, watching it fly through the air after being catapulted from a book too close to the edge of a table? Was it from a frustrated and exhausted state with words spoken through her flailing hands, forgetting the fact she had held a mug of coffee? There were so many memories. She wondered what she would do once she gave it up? How would he feel when she told him?