39. 39
Minefields – Faouzia & John Legend
Writing’s On the Wall – Sam Smith
I wake slowly, blinking against the harsh morning light.
For a moment, everything feels still and warm, the kind of lazy, easy quiet that only comes after a night like last. My arm stretches across the bed, reaching for Zoe, expecting soft skin and tangled hair, maybe even a sleepy groan of protest if I pull her too close too soon, but there’s nothing there.
Just cold sheets and the faint trace of her shampoo on the pillow.
I lie there for another few seconds, waiting, listening, expecting to hear her in the bathroom or rustling around in the kitchen, but all I get is silence, that thick kind of quiet that doesn’t feel right.
“Zoe?” I call, voice still hoarse, dry with sleep.
No answer.
I push up, running a hand over my face as I glance around the room, half expecting to see her standing by the window or pulling on her jeans in the doorway, but the room is empty.
I drag on a shirt as I move through the flat, checking the bathroom, the kitchen, the front verandah.
She’s nowhere. Her boots are gone, her bag too, and I rub a hand across my jaw, trying to shrug it off.
I tell myself she probably ducked home to feed that fluffy menace or grab something from her place without waking me, which, knowing her, she’d take weird pride in managing.
Still, I grab my phone off the bench and send her a quick message.
Me: Where’d you sneak off to, Freckles?
And I wait. But there’s nothing. No little bubbles, no reply. I call her next, listening to the ring once before it cuts to voicemail, her voice chirping through the speaker like nothing’s wrong, like we didn’t fall asleep wrapped around each other not twelve hours ago. I text Imogen.
Me: You seen Zoe this morning?
And as I wait, I try to convince myself I’m being dramatic, that she’s fine, that she just forgot her phone or doesn’t feel like answering, but my chest keeps tightening with every second that ticks by without an answer.
When a text message finally comes through, I snatch my phone off the bench like an idiot, hoping it’s from Zoe, but it’s from Imogen: Come over for brekkie. Joseph wants you to make pancakes.
No mention of Zoe. No answer to the question. Just casual, normal fucking pancakes. I throw my keys into my hand, barely remembering to lock the door behind me.
The gravel crunches beneath my tyres as I pull into Harrison and Imogen’s driveway.
The early morning sun cuts through the gum trees, the edges of everything too bright, too loud for the way my chest feels.
I park my ute beside Harrison’s Subaru. My legs feel heavier than they should as I make my way up the front path, and before I’ve even knocked, the door swings open.
Joseph grins up at me from the doorway, his little hands clutching the edge like he’s been waiting.
“Uncle Mikey!” he yells before launching himself at my legs. I crouch down automatically, catching him and giving his hair a playful ruffle.
“Hey, little man,” I say, forcing a smile. “What’s the plan this morning? You making me breakfast?”
Before he can answer, Taco barrels in from the lounge, skidding across the tiles before slamming into my shins. I laugh despite myself, bending down to scratch behind his ears.
“Alright, mate, relax. I missed you, too.”
It’s not until I stand up again that I notice the small pet carrier sitting on the dining table. I stop mid-step, frowning, because Taco’s already abandoned me, trotting over to the table and jumping up on a chair to sniff at the mesh front.
I raise an eyebrow. “Did y’all get a new pet or something?”
Harrison looks up from where he’s standing in the kitchen, then looks at Imogen, and that’s all it takes.
The look between them is too quick, too knowing, and it makes my stomach clench.
“What?” I ask, my voice dropping.
Neither of them answers me, so I step forward, and my heart sinks when I notice the flash of orange fur inside, followed by a familiar meow and then the hiss that confirms it. Sprinkles.
My eyes snap back to them. “She… left?”
“Michael—” Imogen starts as she steps toward me.
“Did she fucking leave?”
Joseph’s little gasp cuts through the air. “Uh, oh. Uncle Mikey said bad word!”
Imogen’s eyes flick to me. “Sit down, let’s talk about it.”
“What’s there to talk about? Just answer my question, Midge. Yes or no?”
Harrison steps in, scooping Joseph into his arms. “Alright, bud, let’s go get those pancakes ready.”
“P’cakes! Yummy!” Joseph cheers as Harrison carries him into the kitchen, the sound of their voices fading until it’s just me, Imogen, and the carrier on the table.
My brows are pulled tight, a hard, unyielding line across my forehead as I follow her out the back door into the yard.
I stop near the old timber table, waiting, my chest wound tight.
“What is this?” I ask finally, motioning to the carrier. My voice is clipped. “What is Sprinkles doing here, Imogen?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her lips press together, and she swallows, eyes holding something I don’t want to name.
“I asked you a question,” I snap.
Her own brows lift. “Hey! Watch your tone with me.”
I force my teeth together and swallow, nodding once. “Fine. Just tell me.”
“She’s not—she just… needed time,” she says carefully. “She went back to Sydney.”
My stomach drops like a stone, and I take a step toward her. “What do you mean she went back?”
“She had to,” Imogen says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “There’s stuff she needed to fix. With Liam. With everything.”
My voice comes out through gritted teeth. “So she’s going back to that piece of shit?”
“Yes,” she says quickly, “but not in the way you think, Michael—”
“Oh, really? Then why does it look exactly like what I think?”
“Because she’s not running back into his arms,” Imogen snaps. “She’s tying up loose ends, trying to close doors she should’ve slammed a long time ago.”
I let out a short, humourless laugh. “And she couldn’t tell me that herself?”
“She thought it would be easier if she left clean. No arguments, no one talking her out of it.”
“I didn’t think she’d leave like this,” I say, shaking my head. “No call. No message. She just fucking vanished.”
Imogen glances toward the back door. “She asked me not to say anything until she was gone.”
“After last night?” I ask—more to myself than anything—my voice rising. “After everything?”
“She didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, too fucking late for that, isn’t it?”
The sound of Joseph’s feet pattering inside cuts through the air, his voice calling out about pancakes again, but Imogen doesn’t break eye contact.
“She left a note,” she says.
“A note.” The word tastes bitter. The anger runs hot under my skin, but it’s sitting on top of something heavier, something worse, because I let her in, I let her close, and she still left anyway. Imogen disappears inside and comes back a moment later with a folded piece of paper.
“What are we, old school now?” I say, laughing without humour. “Why couldn’t she just text me?”
“Just read it, Michael.” She pushes it toward me, her hand firm against mine until I take it.
I sink into the lounge chair, the paper rough between my fingers as I unfold it. Her handwriting is neat, almost too neat.
Michael,
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
I’ve driven back to Sydney. Please don’t be angry.
I need to do this. I need to face everything I left behind and the mess I’ve avoided.
I don’t know what last night was for you.
Maybe it was just sex. Maybe it was something more. But for me, it was everything.
I can’t explain this in a way that will make sense to you, so I won’t try. Please don’t follow me. Don’t come after me.
It’s better this way. For now.
– Love, Zoe
There’s a kiss mark pressed beside her name, faded a little at the edge, and right next to it… there are dark, uneven spots. Tear stains. She fucking cried while writing this.
I stare at the paper for a long moment, my chest tight, my jaw clenching so hard it aches.
My thoughts are a fucking mess—anger that she left without a word, confusion at what any of this means, the hollow punch of knowing I wasn’t worth staying for, and the sick feeling that none of it sounds like her.
It reads like some stripped-down version of Zoe—no bite, no fight, none of the warmth I’ve gotten used to.
I keep coming back to the line about last night.
For me, it was everything.
It was everything for me, too.
And for now ? What the hell is that supposed to mean? What mess is she even talking about? None of it makes sense.
“She didn’t want to go,” Imogen says gently, but I keep my eyes on the floor, the letter loose in my grip.
“Then why fucking leave in the first place?”
Imogen sighs, taking a seat beside me. “She’s not gone for good. She’s trying to protect herself. And you,” she pauses. “That’s all she’s ever done.”
Her words pull my gaze back up.
“What the fuck do you mean, and me ?” I ask, swallowing down the lump that’s been forming in my throat since I walked in. “What do you know?”