It had been a strange week for Roman. Strange because, each day he woke up, the hole in his heart didn’t feel as deep. It ached, sure, the lingering pain almost as prominent as the constant numbing and tingling in his hand. But it was manageable, like whatever had changed in his routine made him unconsciously let go of the grief he felt for Harry, piece by piece, without the additional guilt of it all. 

A part of him pointed out the big change in routine was the ever constant presence of Antonio, either in his and Ophelia’s kitchen, or pestering Roman enough to go a couple of doors down to his own house, watching in bemusement as the bassist was being bothered by the cat who seemed to have ‘taken a liking to him’ as the guitarist put it. 

Still, it couldn’t have been just that. Spending time with a friend wasn’t the be all and end all of all ailments, was it? He had been too preoccupied with this train of thought that the meeting went by all too quickly. He was unsure if he even acknowledged Jack or Rory, or if they had even attended, and was just leaning by the door as the thought struck him still, lost in his own mind, when someone from somewhere cleared their throat to indicate their presence.

“What? What?” It came out sharp, like a knife cutting into the quiet atmosphere of the hall slowly emptying out, eyes falling on a young looking woman (and wasn’t that fucked, seeing someone at least ten years younger than him in the most depressing of meet-up spots), looking at him with interest. “Yes?”