I ran, and I ran. The plastic handles of the shopping bags sawed into my palms, the heavy loads swinging like frantic pendulums against my pumping legs, threatening to tangle my steps and send me sprawling onto the pavement. I didn't care. The fifteen-minute walk was a five-minute sprint, a blind dash through a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis.
I jammed my key into the lock with a force that felt violent, swinging the door open and stumbling into the hallway. I didn't stop. I raced into the kitchen, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and began yanking items from the bags. A tin of beans here, a loaf of bread there, a packet of mince shoved into the fridge. I was a machine, distributing the shopping into its respective cupboards with a frantic, clattering energy, trying to physically outrun the image burned onto the back of my eyelids.
From the living room, my mother's voice filtered through the wall, thin and querulous. "Is that you, Simon?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat was sealed shut by a knot of panic and fury. I just continued, a mad person trying to impose order on one small, controllable part of a world that was suddenly uncontrollable. Only when the last tin was shelved and the final empty bag was crumpled did I stop, bracing my hands on the cool Formica counter, my head hanging low.
Then, I moved with a new, grim purpose. I snatched a sheet of paper from the shopping list notepad, the one with a faded cartoon strawberry in the corner. With a pen that barely worked, I scrawled my telephone number down, the digits jagged and desperate. This was a huge, unforgivable break in protocol. I could almost see Marco's face, the deep disappointment in his clever eyes, the lecture about operational security that would surely follow. But right now, staring at the ghost of Meki's shattered expression reflected in the dark kitchen window, I just didn't give a shit.
I grabbed my jacket and my own bag; the note clutched like a stolen secret in my sweaty hand. I turned and ran for the door.
My father, drawn by the noise, tried to stop me in the hallway. He stood like a bulky obstacle, his mouth opening to say something, a question, a command, another lecture on real men. I didn't hear a word. I pushed past him, my shoulder connecting with his arm with a jarring thud. The shock that flashed across his face was mirrored by my own, but I didn't stop. I wrenched the front door open and ran out into the street.
Everything was a blur now. My feet beat a frantic rhythm on the pavement, the wind whipping tears from the corners of my eyes and tearing through my hair. I saw nothing, not the disgruntled looks from tired neighbours washing their cars, not the sharp, disapproving glances from old women walking their yapping dogs. The world had dissolved into a smear of colour and noise. The only thing in sharp, terrible focus was the memory of Meki's broken face, a silent scream driving me forward.
I arrived in the supermarket's car park in less than five minutes, my lungs burning, my thoughts a scrambled mess. I stumbled to a halt, doubling over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air I couldn't seem to catch. The adrenaline that had fuelled my sprint was gone, leaving a hollow, frantic shell. What now? The thought screamed in my head, useless and panicked. What was the plan? Storm the staff room? I had no plan. I was just here; drawn by a compulsion I didn't understand.
BEEEP.
The sound was a physical jolt. It took my oxygen-deprived brain a moment to process that I was standing directly in the path of a slow-moving sedan, right in the middle of the traffic lane of the car park. I was an island of stupidity in a river of impatient shoppers.
BEEEP. "Oi! Get a move on, you, daft sod!"
I flinched, shuffling robotically to the side, out of the car's path. The driver, a red-faced man, slowed as he passed, leaning out his open window. "Fucking idiot!" he shouted, the words bouncing off me without registering. I did nothing, just stared through him, my gaze already searching the vast facade of the store. My mind had already discarded him. Meki must still be here, I thought, the logic a desperate, fragile lifeline. Of course they are still here. It's only been fifteen, maybe twenty minutes since I left. Their shift can't be over yet.
My eyes scanned for a vantage point, landing on a grubby, green metal bench positioned between a trolley bay and a flower stall. It offered a clear, if distant, view of the supermarket's automatic main doors. I stumbled towards it and collapsed onto the cold, hard slats, my body trembling with exhaustion and nerves. This was it. This was my only plan. To wait. To hope against hope that the staff used the same door as the customers, and that I would see them, that I would get a chance to fix something I didn't know how I broke.
After an hour of waiting on the cold bench, every nerve ending had been sanded raw by anticipation. The initial, desperate hope began to curdle into a cold, sinking dread. What if they've already gone for the day? What if they used a staff exit out the back? The thoughts were a swarm of hornets in my skull. I couldn't just sit here anymore. I had to know.
I pushed myself up, my joints stiff, and made my way back towards the supermarket's entrance. I was absorbed back into the hive of busy shoppers, a ghost trying to navigate a world of the living. I skirted around overloaded trolleys and harried parents, my path a determined beeline for the very back of the shop, to the chilled aisle.
I didn't hesitate. I yanked the fridge door open, the cold mist washing over my heated face, and grabbed a single vanilla protein shake. My fingers tightened around the cold, smooth bottle, a talisman, a habit, a tiny piece of our shared language. Then I turned and jogged back towards the front, my heart hammering against my ribs for the second time that day.
The chaos from earlier had subsided into a dull, manageable roar. The self-service tills were glowing and active again, a line of people scanning their own groceries under the watchful eye of a single, bored-looking attendant. My eyes, however, darted past them, straining to see the manned checkouts.
And there they were.
At Till Number Four, Meki was still there. But they were a ghost of themselves. Their movements were no longer frantic, but hollow, a precise, repetitive, robotic motion. Scan a tin, beep, place it in the bagging area. Scan a loaf, beep, place it. There was no life in their eyes, no sharp wit twisting their lips. They were a cog in the machine, an automaton in a thin blue dress, so utterly unlike the vibrant, anarchistic force of nature I fought alongside. The sight was a physical pain in my chest.
But they were here. That was all that counted.
I paid for my drink at the self-service till, the transaction feeling surreal and mundane. I didn't look back at them again, not wanting to risk another devastating moment of recognition. Clutching the shake, I walked out and returned to my vantage point on the same grubby bench, the cold plastic of the bottle a small, solid anchor in the storm of my helplessness. Now, I just had to wait for the shift to end.
After another hour of futile waiting, the wind began to whip through the car park, snatching at discarded receipts and sending shopping bags skittering like tumbleweeds. A sharp gust caught my half-empty shake, knocking it from the bench. It hit the wet tarmac with a dull, final crack, the last of the vanilla liquid pooling like a sad little ghost before being swept away.
Then the skies tore open.
The rain didn't fall; it was a solid, punishing sheet of water that hit the asphalt so hard it seemed to bounce back up, drenching me from below as well as above. In seconds, my hoodie was a leaden weight, my hair plastered to my skull, and a shiver racked my entire body. The downpour was relentless, a roaring white noise that felt almost personal, as if the universe itself was trying to wash me away from this place. It continued for what felt like a lifetime, though it was probably only twenty minutes, before it ceased with the same abrupt violence with which it began.
The sudden silence was broken only by the drip-drip-drip from the shop's awning and the squelch of my own clothes as I shifted on the bench. I was utterly drenched, waterlogged, and feeling lower than shit. A deep, bone-aching cold was setting in. People returning to their cars now gave me a wide berth, their glances a mix of pity and suspicion. A mother pulled her child closer as they passed. I must have looked like a proper mess, a druggie waiting for a score or a vagrant with nowhere else to go, a sodden, shivering statue of desperation. But beneath the humiliation and the cold, a single, stubborn ember of resolve refused to be extinguished. I wasn't moving.
I don't know how much longer I waited, but suddenly there they were.