Page 171 of Seven Lost Summers
For a long moment, we stay here.
Two people bound by the same loss, the same love, finally saying our goodbyes in the silence she left behind.
Chapter 29
Quinn
Thefirstknocknearlyfolds into the background.
This apartment’s always humming with its own kind of chaos—the fridge rattling before it kicks in with a low growl, the fan coughing in its corner, the sirens bleeding through the thin glass and sinking into the walls. The floorboards creak when the neighbours upstairs stomp around, probably arguing again, but I’ve learned to stop hearing it.
Then comes the second knock.
Heavier.
Then softer, a second rhythm chasing the first. One confident, one almost tentative.
I remain still, camera in hand.
Nobody comes here.
That’s not me being dramatic, that’s a fact. My phone barely rings unless someone’s chasing up an order from my website, and even then it’s almost always an email because no one bothers with phone calls anymore. I don’t have drop-ins. I don’t have the kind of friends who show up without warning.
It couldn’t be my neighbor Mrs Brickmore, either. She left this morning, dragging Charlie and Milly toward the bus stop while I was heading in the opposite direction toward the cemetery. She’s predictable. Shopping on Wednesdays, bingo on Thursdays, gossip every other day.
My stomach drops.
That leaves my landlord.
The sleazy fuck’s been circling for weeks now, finding excuses to “check the pipes” or “inspect the locks,” always with that smirk like he’s picturing me on my knees instead of fixing whatever’s broken. He’s the type who thinks because the place is cheap and falling apart, I should be grateful enough to put up with his wandering eyes.
Another knock sounds.
I cross the cramped space, avoiding the peeling patch of lino in front of the sink. My pulse hammers in my throat as I set my camera on the table, the strap sliding until it hangs over the edge of the chipped table.
The peephole’s clouded from years of dust, but I can still make out the shapes—two tall figures, filling the hall.
It’s not my landlord.
My heart does that thing it always does when I see them—trips, stumbles, forgets the rhythm meant to keep me alive.
Nate with his cap backwards, shoulders squared as if the hallway isn’t big enough to hold him.
Beside him, Theo, standing too close in that way he always does, restless energy written in every line of him.
I step back, my fingers lift on instinct, combing through my hair to smooth out the worst of the mess. Hours in the darkroom mean chemicals and heat have had their way with my hair, and frizz is the price I always pay for my craft. Not that either of them have ever cared how I look, but something in me still wants to meet them on even ground.
But I stop short.
What the fuck are they doing here?
I haven’t heard a thing from either of them in days.
Three, to be exact. Three days since I walked away from them at the airport, red-eyed and blotchy, snot running, mortified that I couldn’t hold it together. No texts. No calls. No sign they even noticed I was gone.
To be fair, I didn’t reach out to them either.
A few times I almost did.
