Page 78 of The House Swap

But I knew she was lying.

I could see it in the way her eyes kept straying towards the side of my face before she remembered she wasn’t supposed to look.

Deep down, I know she tried, but I also realise she did so out of guilt.

The space that grew between us was gradual. It was small things at first. She would hesitate when I reached for her, reluctant to be intimate, and there was always a quiet excuse if I suggested going out somewhere where we would be publicly seen together.

Eventually, she told me she thought we both need a fresh start.

I just smiled blandly and agreed, determined to hold on to my last shred of dignity. There was no way I was going to beg her to stay.

Work helped.

I was employed by a home maintenance company. Plumbing, heating, electrics. A bit of this and a bit of that. It was all good experience and I enjoyed the work, keeping my head down when I was in people’s houses, not wanting the attention.

Luckily, we were often sent out as a team of two. I would focus on the actual work, not wanting to be noticed, while my colleagues would be the face of the company. Building my skillset, left to my own devices.

Houses are easier to understand than people. They don’t judge you and they behave predictably. When something goes wrong, there is always a cause.

People are less straightforward. Especially when they are trying to pretend everything is normal.

For a while, I kept mostly to myself outside of work. I still had a friendship group, but it had dwindled. Probably because of my bad moods. My mates, they didn’t understand. They had learned to look past my scars once they became used to them, and they didn’t understand why I couldn’t move on.

Still, some stuck by me, and Friday nights in the pub were one of the few precious highlights of my week. After a while, though, I craved female company.

The problem was, I didn’t exactly have women throwing themselves my way.

I had once considered myself okay looking, but the ugly scarring had ruined everything and now I was too cowardly to try to date again.

But it didn’t stop me watching. Or wanting.

Most people follow patterns. They visit the same places, walk the same routes, sit at the same tables and order the same things.

There was the girl who came into the pub on a Friday night. She always met her friend for a pre-weekend drink. Then there was the blonde who I would see on her lunch break. She often ate in the cafe across from her office, sometimes with friends, other times alone, but her order was almost always the same: a cup of peppermint tea and a flapjack. There was the woman in my gym. Always intensely concentrating, AirPods in as she ran on the treadmill and pumped weights. She never saw me. Never realised that I would stay later on a Tuesday and Thursday so I could follow her home. And then there were customers too. The single women who lived alone.

They never noticed me. But I always noticed them.

Routine is comforting and predictable, and if you pay attention long enough, you begin to notice things. Little details that others overlook.

The way someone pushes their hair behind their ears or bites their bottom lip when they are concentrating.

How their expression softens when they are alone with their thoughts.

The tiny gestures that hide moments of self-doubt.

People reveal more of themselves when they believe they are unobserved.

It became a bit of a pastime for me.

Watching.

Not interfering, just noticing.

Some might find the idea unsettling, but I figure it’s not really that different to reading a book. You observe a character from a distance, learning their habits, their moods, the small details that make them who they are.

The only problem I’m finding is that watching can only satisfy for so long.

Now, I need for it to be more.