You come home from work. You look exhausted, love.
The dark rings under your eyes are the results of nightmares, your floppy strands of hair attest to your fatigue.
Every day, for weeks, months, you come home at 7.05 PM. Sharp. You fish your keys out of your pocket and they jingle while you unlock the front door. Your jacket curls over the backrest of the sole chair in the kitchen and you loosen your tie once you are settled in the living room.
A worn-out couch is the only thing here. No TV, no bookshelves, not even a coffee table decorates the room.
For days, weeks, months, it is only you, me, and that couch.
You visit your bedroom at night. It is as bare as the rest of the apartment, a single, maroon-sheeted mattress in the middle of the small room. A second set of your distinguishing red suit is dangling from a hanger under the window. A white dress shirt, a vest, and pants that were shortened at the hem. You wash it less often than you should.
At first, I was worried about whether you had eaten, because no aliment enters or exits the apartment, apart from the occasional cat food. You live your life in grey routine, there is no time for nutrition on your schedule. I later learned that your boss takes great care of keeping you fed. I am glad he does.
To any outsider, you probably look like you have your life together. Rather stern, mature, sure. In court, you are mechanical, presenting evidence has become a second nature. Your eyes show no weakness.
I know better, and you know better.
I know that every night, you lay in bed, wishing it had been you.
I know that every morning, you spend exactly seven minutes in the bathroom. Three minutes dedicated to your teeth, three minutes are spent trying to gel your hair into place. But one minute, one minute of your day, you look into the mirror and you push down what you perceive from your reflection. I know, and you know too, know that life cannot go on like this, yet you are unable to change, viewer of your own fate.
I also know that the apartment is eerily quiet. No music, no mumbling to yourself, and, most importantly, because it is you we are talking about: No “I’m fine”s.
You are not fine.
Yes, routine made it look like you are living your life. Not to the fullest, no, but you are alive, and that is what counts, right?
You are still not fine now, nowhere near fine, when you lay in bed, Mikeko curled up next to your head. Your hair - it has gotten longer, I notice - falls onto your pillow. You can’t sleep, you stare at the ceiling, have been staring for a few minutes now.
A staticy pling pling rips you from your trance. Your phone lights up.
Your eyes narrow. I, too, wonder who this could be that is calling you so late at night, tearing apart your well-established, carefully-built routine like this.
“Justice?” you croak out. I recognise the voice that answers. It’s Klavier Gavin, the rockstar prosecutor. You have told me about him time and time again. I never got to meet him.
“Ach komm, Herr Forehead, don’t be so formal. You know it’s me!”
I chuckle. Your forehead has always been big, there is no point in denying. For a second, you pause. Your gaze lingers on the cherry blossoms outside. On the brink of breaking into bloom, the buds are ready to burst into thulian delicacy.
“Apollo? Are you there?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Can’t sleep?”
You stay quiet. The naked light bulb, cold in colour as the rest of the room, flickers. You sigh.
Your coworker talks until your eyes fall shut, and I can hear him smile when he bids you good night.
His voice on the phone urges itself into your routine, into your life, crudely, imprudent; you let it. You don’t fight nightly calls. You talk about cases, mostly, stuff I don’t understand. I am glad you are still working, despite everything.
One day, he visits you in your dimly lit apartment.
It is a grey winter Sunday, the howling wind snatched away all sunlight. You are drowning your weeks in work but your weekends are spent sitting on the couch, tapping away, long short long short - short long short short - short long - long short long long, over and over again, your love engraved into the scarlet cover, until it is time for you to sleep.
Klavier is handsome, albeit flashy. His smile is contagious as he leans on the front door’s frame.
“Hallo,” he says.
You blink.
“Not gonna let me in?”
Come on. Let him in.
You shake your head and try to close the door. I get it. You are ashamed.
He holds up the door and lets himself in. I can see that he is trying his best to ignore the blue jacket on its hook. One day, you took it off and hung it up, and it has not changed its place since then. I guess it hurts to wear. What a shame.
Upon stumbling into the empty kitchen, his brows furrow, slightly, oh-so slightly. You don’t see it. You covered your right eye - it suits you, I cannot deny - your sight is restricted.
“Nett hier,” he says. “A lot of… space.”
He does not comment further on it. You settle on the couch to discuss your case.
Two days later, you just came home, the doorbell rings. It’s him again. He is holding onto a speaker.
“What is this?” you ask.
He smiles, pushes you to the side and stomps into your kitchen. Behind him, Phoenix Wright and a man clad in black and white hold onto a rather heavy-looking, brown package.
Mr. Wright greets you, the other man, Simon Blackquill, I remember, nods into your direction. They carry the package into your bedroom.
You watch them silently. Klavier pushes you onto your lonely kitchen chair.
“Damn, bitch, you live like this?” Ah, there she is. Ema bursts into your kitchen and ruffles your hair, Athena and Trucy in tow.
Everyone gets to work. Mr. Wright and Mr. Blackquill pretty much build an entire apartment from the ground up; a bed and several bookshelves find their place in your bedroom, a cupboard in the living room. Klavier groans while assembling a TV stand, and Ema - for once - makes herself useful and runs around distributing Snackoos.
You try to interfere once. Your protests go unheard against the Gavinners CD Trucy put on. From your kitchen chair, you watch in silence.
Four hours and 32 minutes later, your apartment is quiet again, safe for the light buzzing of the TV Klavier sets up. He looks pretty like that, blond curls falling over his shoulder, evidently annoying him while he zaps through the programs. He packs up leftovers of the pizza he ordered for everyone and stores them in your cleaned fridge.
He leaves late at night. You close the door. For the first time in months, you sleep soundly in a soft duvet, floor-length black curtains keeping out the peeking moonlight.
A few days later, Trucy and Mr. Wright visit again. They bring bags and cartons of groceries, and together you cook lasagna. Your brother sent you a package with khur’ainese snacks. Trucy steals most of them.
That evening, you sit on your balcony. The cold stone must be uncomfortable, without a blanket underneath, but you do not seem to mind. You look up to the stars. Your right hand taps on your bowl of cut-up fruit.
I love you.
I wish I could answer you.
Instead, I sit down next to you and we watch the stars until the sun chases them away.
Klavier returns to your apartment a week later.
You two sit on your couch, a quiz show running on your new TV. He digs his toes into your carpet. A pizza carton barely keeps him from interfering with your personal space.
“Which song by the rock band U2, formed in 1978, features the lyrics ‘You can hurt yourself tryin' to hold on to what you used to be?” The quizmaster flashes her whitened teeth. The resolution is so great, you can see her every pore.
“Volcano!” You yell in unison.
Your eyes light up, the bit of pizza sauce in the corner of your mouth smears as your lips twist into a crooked smile, and I know it is time for me to go.
How delightful it was to be loved by you, and how deserving he is to feel the same.
Put me to rest, my love. Your home is no longer lonely.