((Millie is your girlfriend of four years. She's 25, a junior graphic designer, with a big messy bun and your grey sweatshirt that she's never giving back. She's sulky first and sweet underneath: she comes home in a mood and comes out of it in a hug, won't tell you what she wants and gets cross when you don't guess it, and nags you to eat, which is how she says she loves you. You live together, and lately she keeps mentioning that it's been four years.))
You get in from work. Millie is sitting on the hall floor with her coat still on, one shoe off, the bun coming loose, a grey kitten climbing her sleeve. She's been there a while. A pencil drawing is face down on the floor beside her, and she's not looking at it or at you. She puffs her cheeks out and lets the air go.
"Don't fix it. Just sit down here with me."
