The road back seems long to me. Hope led me to Hart, but now... hopelessness is not the best companion. I drive to the airport and fly home.

I soak in the bathroom for a long time. I make a resume and portfolio. I am writing a letter of apology to Marcus, but I will not return there.

I send out my resume and go to interviews. I get the job. A new studio hires me and offers me a good salary. It turns out I'm not such a mediocre photographer after all.

I'm moving out of my parents' house again. This time, no roommates. I am on my own.

I am working harder than ever. I try my best. I cook breakfast. I am counting calories. I pay my bills. I run three miles a day, which gives 90 miles per month. I buy suits. I'm making friends.

I'm going on a date today. Like a real date.

...I find the sketchbook with a black cover. Worst timing ever. Though...

Let me test myself. For the past month, I didn't indulge myself a moment to think about Hart. Sometimes I saw him in my dreams. But in the morning, I'd chase away every thought about him. Every memory of his face. Of his voice. It's so stupid and immature of me that I got hooked on him. I promised myself I'd move on. And I am. Moving. On.

I open the sketchbook. I never managed to ask Hart for his permission to look, and never returned the sketchbook. I was busy trying to take a breath through my indignation over Hart's words. So I haven't looked inside the sketchbook, and then I forgot about it. I wanted to forget because I was hurting. I didn't want anything to remind me of Hart. But I didn't throw the sketchbook away. Yeah, in essence, I stole it. But I don't feel too bad about it... Like Hart owed me that much... It's silly and stupid revenge, I get it.

Well, these are good drawings. Sketches. Interesting ideas.

I have to leave in 5 minutes.

Nice still life in tone. A good portrait... it looks like me... another one. And one more... and one more ... And so on till the end of the sketchbook. Fifteen variations of my face. And judging by the date, Hart drew them from memory.

I call Gabe and cancel our date. It's like I rewound time and got back to the same point where I was a month ago. Everything I've carefully packed in boxes and put into the farthest corner of my subconscious rises in piles in the middle of the room of my mind.

Bloody Hart...

The evening that was going to be the very night I could get into close contact with another human being turned into the evening of a sad face, hot tea, and Hart's photographs. Then it smoothly flowed into the night of thoughts about Hart. And in the morning, I hated the weekend. Work would help me distract myself. And here, alone with this sketchbook and photographs, I was in a trap.

I go to my parents and impose my help on them in matters of any kind. Mom looks at me with concern, but fortunately finds something to keep me busy. Then I help my father with cleaning out the garage. And in the evening, we have a family dinner, and I go to bed in my room.

One glance at the sofa brings me back to my memories, and... all the efforts I've put to keep myself distracted all day are gone wasted.

Mom is knocking on the door as before to say good night.

"Darling, are you all right?" She asks softly.

"Yes, mom, I'm just tired. I've had a lot of work lately. And you know, new place, new team. I just wanted to feel at home."

Well, I hope that at least sounded believable...

"I see," mom says and looks at me thoughtfully. She has such a look when she has something else to say, but she can't decide if this is the right moment.

"Mom?" I push her slightly because I'm curious.

"A couple of days ago... that young man came... Hart, I think?"

I jump up on the bed, but my heart drops to the floor. I'll pick it up later. Seeing my reaction, my mother falls silent.

"And?" I'm not even trying to hide my impatience anymore.

"He asked where you lived and worked now. But he was drunk, so I didn't tell him anything. Did you have a fight or something?"

"What happened next?" I force her to continue, eagerly absorbing every word.

"Nothing. I asked him what had happened, and if he needed help. I offered him a coffee, then went into the house to take the cups, and when I returned, he was gone. He looked... well, what happened between you two?"

For a moment, I felt better, curiosity receded and even allowed me to lie back on the pillow.

"It's hard to explain, mom," I say without looking at her.

"Gray... I know I have no right to interfere, and yet... Maybe this Hart isn't a bad person, but... not an easy one to deal with..."

"Thank you, mom," I say softly and affectionately, but still, I don't want her to continue. I know all this. These are my thoughts exactly. But I don't want to hear it. And I don't want to believe it.

How familiar and, at the same time, completely different the longing aches in my chest. It seems sweet and teases me with its elusive taste. Mom leaves me alone with it.

Why didn't she give him my number?.. It's unlikely that Hart would venture to take such a step again. If it was a step at all. Maybe he was drunk and had crazy ideas. Crazy ideas about me...

Maybe it's good that mom didn't tell him anything. When I took a step toward Hart... It was a huge step. More of a leap... I took the plane actually to get to him! And he... turned me down. So why would he seek me now?

For what?

A couple of kisses?.. Yes, mind-blowing, turning-everything-upside-down-inside-me-but-still-leading-nowhere kisses. Hart seems to quench his thirst and returns to his comfort zone again, where he is not the one who needs to kiss men to feel good.

Hart is impulsive. And I don't want to be the one who jumps on the alert to satisfy his every impulse right away.

After all, what does this Hart think of himself? I have my own life! And even fifty of my portraits do not cancel his cowardice.

Oh, such loud words he said! How honest he is with his desires! Yeah, honest, my ass.

It is a pity that my heart does not follow the thread of thought and stubbornly aches in my chest until morning.

I can barely eat a couple of pancakes for breakfast only to soften my mother's worried face. She walks me to the car. And there, I allow myself a treacherous weakness.

"If he comes back, give him my number," I say, opening the side window. "Please." I give her a meaningful look to add weight to my request. Now I can be sure that she will fulfill it. And I'm leaving.

It's not that I'm waiting... I count the minutes of each passing day...