Love is a Laserquest - Alex Turner/Arctic Monkeys Fan Fiction

She's Not There

2014

Only a week after the funeral, I go back to London, back to work, back to my life. I haven't heard from Alex since I confessed the truth to him in Dad's living room, and I haven't tried to reach out to him either. Matt has called repeatedly, trying to ask what happened, what's going on with me and Alex, if I'm okay, but I brush him off, tell him I'm too busy with packing up Dad's house to talk. And when I leave Sheffield to return to London, I take one last look at the house– the place where I grew up, where Dad built a life for us, where I felt so unconditionally loved and protected, safe, and I feel like crumbling on the front step once more. But I can't afford to keep it, so I pack several boxes to take to my flat, I leave the house plain and nearly bare for the estate agent, and I lock the door behind me when I go.

I'm surprised at how grateful I am to get back to the job that I thought I hated for so long– that has embarrassed me, and exhausted me– the one that caused me so much grief, and made me lie to my best friend. But I take solace in pulling on my uniform for the first time since Dad died, in pushing our cart of supplies down the halls, in stripping beds and wiping down showers alongside Rosie once more. And to her credit, she doesn't ask after how I feel or how I'm doing– she doesn't bring up Alex, or Sheffield, or Dad. Instead, she prattles on about her boyfriend, about her flat having a leak, about Kate Middleton, and it is so comforting and appreciated– so Rosie.

I also haven't told her anything about what happened that day after the funeral. She doesn't know that Alex reached out to me after Dad died and I just missed it, or that he showed up the day after the funeral and we both put everything on the table. She doesn't know I confessed my love for him, and though I want to be truthful, I don't think I'll tell her. I just can't. I haven't heard from Alex since, and it hurts too much to think about it.

So I don't. I work, and I go back to my flat and watch telly, and I drink when I start to feel a bit too anxious or sad, or I wander around London, around Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, and I let my mind become a complete blank. It becomes easy to switch on autopilot during the day, to go through the familiar motions of life without any thought or feeling mixed in. It helps to not listen to music, because so much of my music is infused with Alex– songs we discovered together, or introduced to each other, or had on when we shared one moment or another. There isn't a single song in my library that I can't attach to Alex, or Dad, in some way, so I mostly avoid it all together. But there are some rare moments– maybe when I've had too long of a day, or a bit too much to drink– where I let myself listen to something, and I cry, alone in bed, until I fall asleep and forget.

It's like this for nearly two weeks after my return to London, when Rosie and I are cleaning one of our rooms and she snaps at me.

"All right, darlin', what's this then?"

I've just finished yanking the fitted sheet off the bed when she straightens up and asks it, hands on her hips, like she's angry with me.

"What?" I ask, standing to my full height as well, confused.

Across the width of the bed, she squares off with me and says, "Sumfin's 'appened. Uvva then your dad, I mean. You're not you. Was it Alex? At the cemetery?"

I stare at her from across the room, feeling cold, feeling numb, unable to let myself sink into any particular emotion, too scared. A Zombies song begins to play on a loop in my head, after days of not allowing myself to think in music, and it makes my throat tighten painfully.

Please don't bother trying to find her

She's not there

"Lily."