That night, I went home. Emma was in the kitchen, her laptop open on the counter, her phone beside it, her reading glasses on. She was working on something the academy feature, probably, or the podcast proposal that she hadn't mentioned in two weeks.
"How was the match?" she asked, not looking up.
"We won. Two-one."
"Good." She typed something. The keys clicked in the quiet apartment.
I stood in the doorway and looked at her. Really looked at her, for the first time in weeks. She was wearing a hoodie not mine, her own, a grey one I didn't recognise and her hair was pulled back in a knot that looked functional rather than aesthetic.
Her face, in the kitchen light, was thinner than I remembered. Not dramatically the change you notice in someone you see every day only when you stop and actually see them. There were shadows under her eyes that matched mine.
"Em," I said. "How are you?"
