It’s been weeks since his last call. Amber has texted James so many times, and left him so many messages — growing more and more desperate — she has lost count. It feels a little like crying out to the moon, far away and unreachable, even though he is her boyfriend. Isn’t he?

Amber is not so sure anymore. And this state of suspension is more than she can bear. Every morning she wakes up with a vague sense of unease, and she is foggy with disorientation until she remembers. His silence is suffocating, and her heart is a bruised organ, hurting with every beat. So in a fit of ill-considered boldness, she has decided to confront him in his own lair: she’s come to his apartment even though the last text he’d sent (again, weeks ago) had been so brutally clear it had taken her breath away.

‘I can’t see anyone right now, even you. I’ll call.’

What did that mean anyway? ‘Even you.’ Amber had cried for days after that text, the tears seeping out like tree sap even during dance practice. She was not in the ‘anyone’ category. They were exclusive, and that accorded her special privileges, like the right to see him and hear his voice to make sure he was okay.

Amber can’t remember how long she’s been standing in front of his door. There are metallic cracks everywhere, and under her fingers, the door’s coldness is a reminder that she is not dreaming. Somewhere, there is a sound like a bird whistling, and Amber realizes that it’s the sound of her rapid breathing.

She could do this. She must. Amber pushes the bell, and waits.

Long minutes pass, and Amber’s heart is beating so hard she struggles to breathe. She knows he is in there because his motorcycle is in the garage. Scowling, she rings his bell again, beginning to feel a burn behind her eyes. This is the kind of anger that makes people do wild things, Amber thinks — lift cars, set fire to buildings, throw out furniture through the window — I am ready to do violence. Raising her arm, Amber punches his door until she cannot feel her fist anymore. Blood and bruises. Let there be blood and bruises. I don’t care.

“James Lee, I’m going to knock on this door until you open! I don’t care if people call the police! You and I are going to finish this!”

She beats on his door with her fists — and later her knees and feet — for so long she begins to doubt that he is there at all.

Suddenly there is movement on the other side. Amber in a tearful breath, and wills herself to go still, listening. The door opens a tiny crack, and there he is. The man who’s reduced her to this, this animal state.