Home

I typed "home" into Google Maps and it took me to her door.

I didn't notice at first. Tired, 1 AM, after a night out I didn't enjoy. I got in the car, opened the app, tapped the little house icon, and started driving on autopilot.

Her name was Zainab. We'd been together two years. Somewhere in that time, I saved her flat as "Home" because I was there more than my own place. It was a joke, mostly. Then it stopped being one.

We ended in June. A calm conversation, a hug at the station, and a promise that we'd "still be good for each other." We weren't. We just stopped talking.

Twenty minutes into the drive, I realised the streets were too familiar. Her bakery. Her corner shop. The bridge where she once made me stop the car to watch swans.

I should've turned around. I pulled up outside her building instead and cut the engine. Her window was dim. Third floor, left. A lamp glowing yellow.

I sat there like a creep in an Audi, thinking about how my phone knew me better than I did.

Then the lamp flicked off. And on. And off. Twice.

Her signal. Two flashes meant "I see you."

It was what she did when I used to arrive late. When I used to pull up outside, hoping she'd still be awake.

She didn't text. She didn't come down.

She just let me know I wasn't alone out here.

I drove to my actual home, and for the first time, it felt like the wrong address.