I wasn't exactly sure why, but I knew right away that the red flags that were suddenly waving in my brain weren't something I could, or should, easily ignore.

It was just a glance, innocent and genuinely by chance, as my eyes kept wandering idly around her room and everything in it, since I was too preoccupied last night to pay any attention.

The walls, and the countless pictures decorating them; images of her as a cheerful baby laughing as his dad threw her in the air, or as a determined looking little girl wearing her ballerina outfit and her red hair in a bun whilst making her first dance moves, or as a teenager, awkward but still beautiful in her perfect unawareness of it.

The freshly cut flowers that rest in a vase on her desk - which I bet her mother took from her shop when she knew she was coming -, that stole a smile from me because they are the same she brought to my mother's wedding years ago when we first met.

Books, some stuffed animals, lots of decorative pillows scattered on the floor, I guess by us last night though I barely remember.

Why did my eyes wandered off to those envelopes stacked on her nightstand? And why did that name sounded so familiar to me in the most inexplicably, yet utterly bitter way?

The answer came to me almost as quickly as the question and the red flags arose. And I understood, right there and then, that I was right not to overlook my instincts.

She is standing in front of me, half naked and clearly baffled. She is looking at the envelope in my hand, narrowing her eyes at it, trying to read what's written on it.

"Andrew? Really?" I save her the effort, shivering at the sole mention of his name, and the memory of our first and last encounter in the hotel lobby. "Why is he even writing to you?"

The hand that is not holding the envelope is closed in a tight fist, and I can feel the pain it sustained when I punched him in the face that day.

"Andrew?" She now looks confused and rather surprised that his name just came up, like she hasn't heard it in ages, which manages to calm me down a little. "I have no idea. My mum just dropped off those letters literally five minutes ago, Harry. I didn't even see it."

For the first time since I saw the envelope, I notice that it actually hasn't been opened. And I start to feel a little stupid and ashamed for my hasty reaction.

She walks closer to me, throwing the towel she was holding in her hand to the floor, and smiling rather nervously at me.

"Why would he reach out to you out of the blue, Lea?" I ask, this time considerably calmer than before, and she slowly wraps my fisted hand, pulling me down to sit on her bed.

We are both seated next to each other, and with her free hand she beckons me to give her the letter. And I do.

She looks at it, turning it around several times, like she's studying it.

"I honestly have no idea." She says. "I haven't seen him since I left school, Harry, I swear."

I believe her, of course. It's not that I am jealous of him or mistrusted of what she's saying. But there's something about this letter that annoys me to the point of being angry, and I can't quite put my finger on it.

"Are you going to open it?" I ask her, trying not to sound too interested, although the need to know is eating away at me. "Don't you want to see what he says?"

She seems to consider the situation for a few seconds, but she eventually shrugs, seemingly indifferent, and puts the letter back in the table where I found it.

"What I want is to have some pancakes." She says, standing up and offering me her hands to do the same. "And some coffee."

*****

I should be happy that she is so not interested in knowing what that letter says; thrilled even.

If she doesn't care about it, then I sure as hell should not care about it either.

And I don't. Not really. Why would I? I absolutely do not care if he misses her, or if he doesn't. I don't give a single fuck about anything that he has to say to her.

Still, it is bugging me. Right at the back of my mind, his name written across that envelope keeps chewing its way forward; and it is invading my every thought.

So much so, we are packing our bags back into our cars ready to head back to London, and I can barely remember anything we've said or did all day.

"Do you have everything?"

Ellie pulls me out of my own thoughts putting a hand on my shoulder, and I nod quietly.

She flashes a warm smile at me and hands me a container filled with left overs, which I thank her for with a much more enthusiastic feeling.

"Thank you." I say, returning the hug she just embraced me with. "Really, for everything."

Lea is walking over to us, followed by her father who, even though he has been more accepting of me after the makeover, still keeps his distance and simply shakes my hand and nods as a goodbye.

Under different circumstances I would worry about it, thinking that I wasn't able to change his mind about me after all; but given the fact that my mind is totally elsewhere, I appreciate the lack of pleasantries which I don't think I am fit to reciprocate.

"I hate that we can't drive back together." Lea says when I'm about to get in my car, and I give her a far fetched smile. "See you at home?"

I don't hate it. I'm actually looking forward to it. Getting in my car alone with my head and thoughts. Having the chance to collect them and finally rearrange them into something that could make sense of this restlessness I can't give a proper reason to.

"See you at home." I repeat, and I start the engine.

I see her on my rear view mirror, getting smaller by the second, and she's just standing there in her driveway staring at me driving away. I can't actually see her face, let alone read her expressions, but something in her stance tells me she's onto me and my strange behavior.

By the time I turn around the corner she is walking towards her car, and a few moments later I see her behind me, matching my speed so she won't drive past me.

Two hours into the journey back to London I am still trying to pin point that thing that's annoying me; but it keeps eluding me like a slippery fish out of the water.

I just don't get it. I don't get me, at all. If this is not about jealousy, if I believe her when she tells me that she haven't seen or even heard from him in months, then why the hell does the fact that he sent a letter to her house bothers me so much?

And just like that, it hits me. The slippery fish is now in my hands, tightly trapped between my fingers and unable to break free.

I can't breathe, all of a sudden, and this anger that resembles a lot to that I felt before stepping into her apartment last month, crashes down on me. And this time, I'm not sure it can be placated.

I consider stopping right here, in the middle of the road, and confront her on the spot. But instead I keep driving, maybe a little too fast, and let the cold air in to cool me off.

It doesn't work, though. And I am using my key to her apartment within the hour.

"What's your deal, Schumacher?" She jokes as she walks through the door, almost an hour later.

I am facing the window as I hear her footsteps getting closer, and when I turn around there must be something in my face that makes her stop in her tracks.

"He knew." I mutter, looking straight into her eyes, noticing how the smile on  her lips turns into a pale line.

"Harry, what's..." She tries to take another step, but I just raise my arms in front me, like a barrier between us.

"All this time, he knew where you were."