Wild Figs Above Corfu

The next morning, I typed a text to my best friend, Sarah: *We didn’t break. We just changed.* I stared at the screen, deleted it, and typed: *I’m taking the motorbike home. It’s louder than my car.* I didn’t send that either. Instead, I poured the second cup of coffee, black, and walked out onto the terrace where Rory was already washing the salt off his arms, watching the sea with that loose, unbothered posture he’d had since 2014.

He looked up, saw the coffee in my hand, and didn’t ask for any. He just smiled, the kind that started in his eyes and made the dark hair on his forearms seem even darker against the pale skin of his neck. He had broad shoulders, worn thin by years of lifting heavy things he didn’t need to lift, and hands that were permanently rough, the knuckles scarred from a decade of fixing engines and breaking into stuck sheds. He was wearing nothing but black swim trunks, and the water dripping from his chest looked like it was moving in slow motion.

I took a sip. It tasted like victory and exhaustion.