You Are Here

by David Nicholls

Sometimes, she thought, it’s easier to remain lonely than present the lonely person to the world, but she knew that this, too, was a trap, that unless she did something, the state might become permanent, like a stain soaking into wood. It was no good. She would have to go outside.

She had become addicted to the buzz of the cancelled plan. It was a small and fleeting high and no one would ever look back fondly at all the times they’d managed to get out of something, but for the moment no words were sweeter to Marnie than ‘I’m sorry, I can’t make it.’ It was like being let off an exam that she expected to fail.

Stepping outside transformed loneliness to solitude, a far more dignified state because it was his choice.

Private, intimate, a book was something she could pull around and over herself, like a quilt.

The stories we tell about ourselves are never neutral: they’re shaped and structured to create an impression,

For the moment she felt content, not because she’d spoken but because she’d been listened to.

‘Look at what we did together,’ she said. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s quite something.’