‘You probably can’t wait to get back home,’ I say.
‘Well, home isn’t a place, is it? It’s a feeling. And sometimes … sometimes, being around all that happiness, all that joy and togetherness? Well, it makes me miss Anna more than ever. Makes me realise how alone I am when I’m there … Apologies. I’m being miserable.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I say, quickly. ‘You’re just being honest. And we made that deal, didn’t we? That we didn’t have to pretend for each other.’
‘We did. But sometimes pretending is necessary. Sometimes pretending is the only thing that gets you through the day.’
‘Now you are being miserable!’ I answer, feeling scared of what he says. Feeling worried that he might be right. That too much honesty would upset the delicate balance that everyone is struggling to keep.
That the truth of this situation – that seeing him is the best part of my day, that being apart from him hurts, that time away from him feels wasted – would crack open the world.
‘You may be right,’ he replies. ‘Roof?’
I nod, and we leave the canteen. He waves to someone on the way out, and I see it is Samantha, the red-headed teenager. She throws her hair over her face and pretends she hasn’t seen us. There is a camera on the table beside her, which she seems to be trying to hide. Teenagers are weird.
We make our way to the usual spot via the lifts. It is hit and miss how many other people we find up here. Some days it is completely deserted, on others there are gaggles of staff chatting and laughing, or relatives seeking some alone time, or patients still attached to drip stands.
Today, we are alone. We pull our chairs close to the edge of the balcony, to better watch the performance that goes on at this time every day.
It is around six, and within half an hour the sun will start to set. It’s like a free show at the edge of the world, the mundane and the mind-blowingly beautiful combined in one spectacular scene.
The city is always busy, always filled with traffic and noise and music and bustle, but it looks completely different at night. At night, the dust and the congestion and the choked streets become something more ethereal, a blanket of neon, an urban fairy tale.
Sunset is when it all changes, at once gradual and sudden. One moment, it’s like everything is changing so slowly you can almost see the sun sinking inch by inch, a blaze of orange fire as it falls into the distant hills. The next, it’s over.
‘It is amazing, every single time, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘And every night, when I see those lights twinkling up in the mountains, I wonder who lives there, and what their lives are like.’
‘Perhaps we should get in a taxi and go and knock on their doors.’
‘I’m not sure that’s ever likely to happen,’ I reply, staring off into the indigo horizon, ‘but it’s a nice thought. How are you anyway? Have they said you can go home yet?’
He is silent for a moment, and I don’t look at his face. I don’t want to see what might be there. They’ve already told me I could go home, medically speaking, and I’m sure they’ve told him the same.
I know why I’m still here – for Harry. I’m not sure I’m ready to know why he is. I’m just grateful for it.
‘What?’ he says, gesturing at the view. ‘And leave all this? Winter in Stockholm might be beautiful, but it’s not the perfect place for a man on crutches. Anyway. I think I’ve met someone special.’
I can tell from his tone that he is about to say something silly, and find myself smiling in advance.
‘How exciting! Who is the lucky woman?’
‘Bettina. I think she likes me.’
‘Bettina who works in the canteen?’
‘Yes, that Bettina.’
‘The one who is about two hundred years old and crosses herself every time anyone uses a credit card?’
‘Her, yes. I think we have something. She gave me a free bag of chilli nuts yesterday.’
‘Free chilli nuts? That is romantic. I wish you both well. Let me know when I need to buy a new hat for the wedding.’
We share a grin, and turn back to the view. The light is fading, but the air is still a warm touch against our skin.
‘Have you ever … you know, actually considered asking someone out?’ I ask, after a few moments.
‘Not really,’ he says, sipping his coffee. ‘Not yet. It’s strange, but I feel guilty if I even think about another woman. I even … I even feel guilty when I’m with you sometimes. Every time we laugh, or share a joke, or watch a sunset, I feel like I’m taking a step away from her. Betraying her somehow.’
