I actually have some time to write something. Unheard-of recently.

This is very much a work-in-progress.

Spencer woke early that morning, his limbs disobedient after a night of heavy stillness. He rolled over and patted the other half of the bed; the realisation that it was empty flushed the grogginess from his mind.

Of course it was empty. It had been empty for six weeks and two days (he crossed off the days in a cheap pocket diary), but he still could not adjust. There was something in his life he couldn’t rely on any more, and the absence still stunned him.

He wrote in his diary of his life “spiralling out of control,” of “emptiness, numbness” and so on. He didn’t really believe these things at all; his brain told him that he should, so he substituted them in. As always in these situations, his heart dutifully succumbed.

He squeezed his fists and thumped the bedside table.