The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Four

(Ewan's POV)

It's still dark when I wake up.

The kind of darkness that doesn't feel restful-just blank. A thin line of light from the street cuts through the edge of the blinds, casting sharp angles across the bedroom floor.

I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. I don't dream much anymore. Or maybe I do, but they never stick.

I swing my legs over the bed. The hardwood is cold under my feet, but it's a familiar cold. Predictable. That's what I like. Predictable mornings, predictable habits. The quiet hum of the city outside. The kettle whirring before the sun comes up. No one asking questions.

This job-this trip-is just another assignment. A small-town editorial, human-centered stories, candid moments. Not really my thing, but it came from the top. And if Theo thinks it's worth doing, I'll do it.

Still, something about this one tugs a little differently. Not in a loud way. Just a small pull beneath the surface.

I push the thought aside.

In the living room, my gear is already laid out, as always. Packed two days ago. I double-check it anyway.
Leica, Fuji, Polaroid backup. Lenses. Cables. Batteries. Cards.
Tick, tick, tick.

I move like I've rehearsed this a hundred times. Because I have. Each time I leave for a project, I build walls-order, efficiency, sharp lines. There's safety in that.

On the counter, Lauren left the travel folder: printed itinerary, emergency contact sheet, Rosebury map highlighted. She's already on her way with Naomi and Leah. Theo too-he insisted on going the early with them.

I chose to go alone.

Not for the solitude. For the silence that comes before it.

I sip my coffee standing up, eyes scanning the window. London looks gray and distant, like it already forgot I was here. Funny. I used to crave the rush of it-wanted to be swallowed by the noise. Now I just... observe it, like I would a frame. Something to capture, not belong to.

My bag is heavy, but familiar. I sling it over my shoulder, grab my coat, and head out. No one to say goodbye to. No reason to pause.

In the lift, I catch my reflection in the metal doors. Same tired eyes. Same jacket. Same man trying to convince himself that the next thing-this next thing-will spark something new.

Probably won't.

Still. I show up.

_____

As I drive the car,the city loosens its grip slowly.

I watch it recede in the rearview mirror-glass towers blurred by smog, the gray-blue of morning traffic stretching like taut string. I don't usually drive to shoots, but something told me I'd need the space this time. The isolation. No idle chatter, no curated playlists meant to "set the mood."

Just the hum of the road and the occasional stretch of silence pressing in against the windows.

London disappears behind me, bit by bit. Street by street.

I shift gears, one hand on the wheel, the other absently brushing over the edge of my camera bag beside me. The leather is worn. Familiar. Like a tether.

Out here, things look... different.

There's a softness to the air I didn't realize I'd missed. Grass beginning to thicken along the edges of the highway. Fences chipped with salt and rain. Small farmhouses with crooked chimneys and smoke curling upward like handwritten notes.