The Journalist: Forget Me Not (TJOURN 0.5)

The Journalist: Forget Me Not

He's been home for days now. Over a week. You've managed to keep your head, managed to keep your distance, managed not to pester him daily with random notes, now compiling. Though you would never admit it outright, you've been counting down the days until his return to the country. Counting the dwindling days until his previously stated return, and the increasing number of days since talking to him.

So, yes, he's been home a week, but you haven't heard a word from him. Not a text. Not a phone call, however brief. No hullo I've been unpacking – decided to move about some furniture – and then rearrange the library by date of publication.

Nothing.

Then the photos surface.

He's been decompressing from his time spent abroad by allowing others to dress and parade him about the streets of London. He's just fulfilling obligations that are necessary in the life of an actor, but the sudden lack of contact despite closer proximity is wounding, despite your best efforts. The photos themselves strengthen the injury: shots gleaned from individuals on the street surrounding the photoshoot. Photographs that also happened to capture him leaving with an unidentified woman as he departs the location – a woman clearly not you.

It puts an end to the jibes and insinuations by your coworkers. Finally, no more teasing regarding his insistence that you are the only one to interview him. Under different circumstances you might rejoice in that fact. Damn it all – once again you established a tether to an actor, and once again gotten yourself hurt. If only you'd been able to keep your distance. If only you could congratulate yourself on keeping to your rule. But no - once again... once again...

You glance out the nearby window at the hazy sunrise – the very window you'd propped open more than once to allow Tom to hear the sounds of the city while he was away. Unable to sleep from your frustration, you'd risen early and done the only thing you could think of to help distract - gone to work. Clearly, though, burying yourself in the job isn't going to make the disappointment you feel dissipate any faster. You need a change in scenery, and to better listen to your gut when it warns you off developing attachments.

Angry with yourself, you push away from your desk and head for the elevators. Walking helps – ducking and weaving through the increasing foot traffic. It's still early but the city is starting to rise, the well-rested joining the restless.

You have actor armor for a reason! Had. Had actor armor. Had it, and it failed you. You follow the ebb and flow of those on the sidewalk, not really paying attention to your direction – nor having a destination in mind. You look back, only just able to spot the windows belonging to the offices where you work. You've been tempted more than once to snap a picture of it, send it to him along with a note: From the outside, looking in. Something to go with the background noise the next time you call.

Add that to the list of things never sent, calls never made. It was three weeks of finding excuses. You were always able to talk yourself out of taking that leap and making contact. The failsafe reasoning? Tom was a busy man. And he'd stopped reaching out to you, too.

The first day without word from him had passed with only a frown of realization once you were home and aware of the absence. It was an omission easy enough to assign to a hectic day. Then it was two days. Three. Four... and it became increasingly difficult to fight the growing doubt. He had asked you over, once he came home again. That knowledge still brought a smile to your lips, but one that decreased in strength as the days continued on without a follow up. No short greetings. No playful words. No songs of the day.

After a week and a half doubt had set up a well-established camp – and doubt led to worry and full-on melancholy. All he had wanted was acquiescence? God love the actor ego.