The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Two

(Ewan's pov)

I wake before my alarm. Again.

It's still dark outside—half-five, maybe closer to six—but my body’s already moved on from the idea of sleep. It never lasts long these days, not in any way that feels real. Just stretches of closed eyes and looping thoughts that don’t know when to shut off.

The flat is silent. Too silent, sometimes.

It’s strange—how I worked my whole life to get here. This sleek London apartment, open-plan, all clean lines and muted colours. Steel and slate and glass. A view of the skyline that looks like something off a magazine spread. I designed it like this on purpose. No clutter. No distractions. No softness.

And yet—

Sometimes I wake up and feel like I’m living in a space built for someone else. Someone who’s managed to stay untouched.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, elbows on knees, breathing in the stillness. The air smells like clean linen and nothing else. It’s early spring, but the windows are fogged with the cold that clings to the glass. London doesn’t soften for the seasons. It just changes its kind of noise.

I pull on a sweatshirt and move barefoot across the hardwood floor. My footsteps echo faintly, a reminder of how empty this place really is. I make coffee in silence—two shots of espresso, no sugar. It’s a habit now, not a need. Something that fills the space between being awake and being ready.

I don’t like mornings, if I’m honest.

But they’re necessary.

They keep me sharp. They keep me moving.

There’s something about the stillness of the world before it starts turning that forces you to face your own thoughts, whether you want to or not. Mine tend to be loudest before seven.

I drink my coffee by the window, watching the city blink itself awake. Lights flicker on in distant buildings. A few early cyclists cut through the streets below, hunched against the wind. A woman with a bright red umbrella passes the bakery across the road—probably the same one I see every week. Funny how strangers become landmarks.

It’s not that I’m lonely.

At least, not in the obvious sense.

I have people around me. Work colleagues. Assistants. Gallery reps who pretend to understand my vision and clients who pretend to love it. Friends, maybe, though I’m not sure the word fits anymore.

But I’ve built a life around distance. Around composition. Around angles and contrast and the space between things.

I like observing more than participating. Always have.

Photography, for me, isn’t about capturing beauty. It’s about freezing a moment so I don’t have to feel it. Like holding up glass between me and the world. Safe. Controlled.

Because once you start feeling things too much, it gets messy. It becomes a storm that doesn’t ask permission.

I learned that the hard way.

I glance at the empty side of the bed as I pass by.

No trace of anyone. No hint of perfume, no indentation on the pillow.

And that’s exactly how I keep it.

I don’t bring work home, and I don’t bring people either. Everything has its place. And nothing gets too close.

Some people romanticise time.
They say it heals. Softens things. Gives you perspective.

Maybe that’s true. For them.