Lonely Nights // H.S

5.

'I always think about you and how we don't speak enough'

*

On warmer days, I like to make the office airy, windows hung open and fans spinning in corners. I like the children to feel as free as they would be outside, running around gardens or parks, enjoying their youth as all of them should. If the weather isn't as nice, the room will be kept brighter, some lights stored away for those gloomy days that can offer illusions of both the sun and the moon, whatever they prefer, and sometimes they'll let me play soundscapes of summer breezes and buzzing bees.

Today, the skies are clear, and the kids are in good spirits. I don't see too many every day, maybe five, but they all get the time and attention they need. All with varying degrees of trauma or confusion, some just unsure how to properly voice their feelings, however big or small, because they haven't been shown how to.

It's not for the faint of heart, this job, and sometimes I wonder why I entered the profession, but I believe every child should have someone they can speak to, even if they never do it. They just need to know that someone is there, that they're waiting for whenever they're ready, and they'll listen. As a kid, that's all you ever want. I had that with Riley, and as I got older, I knew I had that with Harry, but it's been hard to find others I feel comfortable enough with because I'd closed myself up to others for so long. If I can be that person for someone else, though, then I suppose it will be alright in the end.

As such, it's been a good day. Each session has been slightly easier on account of the sun, all of them eager to get outside to play again, so they were all willing to open up in hope things would get done quicker, and none of the parents stuck around too long after so they could let their kids have some time outside.

Still, one thing has been unsettling me all day. Not because it's necessarily a bad thing or something to fear. My mind just likes to overanalyse things until I convince myself there's a reason to be nervous.

After work, Harry is set to meet me so we can discuss the drawing his fiancé has commissioned. I had an idea a few days after their dinner party, something I wasn't sure I'd even go forward with, but when I sat down with my sketchbook one evening after one too many glasses of wine, I couldn't stop drawing it out, and I knew it was the only way forward.

I drew from memory, mostly, because the subject wasn't stood in front of me, but so much of their appearance is deeply ingrained in my mind. Every part of my being has been painted with the brush of their existence, and now everything about them is like a feeling to me, not just a memory.

I texted Harry, but didn't tell him what it was, just that I'd rather talk in person over it, and to my delight he promptly agreed. As one of the senior people at his firm, he's able to leave at short notice so there's no worry of a late evening, and I clock off from 4pm, so as I pack up my bag for the day, there is a light knock at the door which I know is him.

He's wearing a suit, one much more demure than some of the things I've seen him in over the years. Dark in colour, professional, but his blazer is hung over his shoulder while his hand holds the tag. He's toned down on the rings today, sticking to silver instead of the mixture with gold, but I still can't help but focus on them for a moment too long as he smiles at me.

"Wanted to be nosy and see your office instead of waiting outside," he says, taking a cautious step inside.

His eyes scan the room, zoning in on certain parts of the décor. Mainly the drawings I've created, but also those from the kids throughout sessions or as thanks that have been gifted to me, bringing bright splashes of colour to an otherwise serious space. There's a corner for books, overflowing and many ruined, but I don't like changing much of the setting, so they stay comfortable. Of course, there are piles of newer ones, alongside arts and crafts for them, too, with a collection of mind stimulating toys, all littered around the room.