Page 15 of Praising Haru

Haru

I’ve lost my job.

What the fuck? He was only a few minutes late to work.

What happened?

Everyone in design got made redundant.

Everyone?

Yup. It was our unlucky day.

My first instinct is to reply with ‘Babe, I’m sorry.’ I don’t even get as far as typing it. He’s not my babe. He’s not my anything. Well, he’s my friend, but that’s it.

I’m sorry.

It is what it is.

What are you going to do?

Look for another job.

That shouldn’t be hard. You’re an awesome designer.

LOL. You’ve never seen any of my designs.

No, but I’ve seen plenty of photos of him over the past year. He has better fashion sense than me—which isn’t hard—and looks cute in everything he wears. Not that good taste in clothes automatically makes him a good designer, but I bet he is.

I scroll through our chat feed to find the last picture he sent. He’d given me fashion tips for a night out, and I’d asked him to send me a picture in return. He was wearing a baggy white shirt which accentuated the softness of his features. In the photo, he gave off boy-next-door vibes. Between photos like that and the way he chats to me via texts, I’ve concluded he’s the type of guy you’d want to take home to meet your parents rather than the type you’d bang into oblivion during a one-night stand.

And he’s waiting for me to reply.

I don’t need to see them.

Thanks for the vote of confidence, but everyone else will be looking for jobs too. Most of them have more experience than me.

Well, that’s a glass-half-empty attitude if ever I heard one. You need to project how awesome you are into the world. Tell the universe you’ll find a new job, and you will.

I stare at my phone, waiting for a response. Did I overdo it?

That works for you?

Yes.

Okay, I’ll give it a try. Thanks.

You’re welcome. I’ll give you a pep talk whenever you need one.

I unwrap my sandwich and eat it. I also keep an eye on my phone. I don’t want it to be the end of the conversation. I enjoy chatting with Haru. It’s why I message him every morning. Getting a response from him brightens my day.

That’s sweet. Thanks.

Sweet? I don’t mind being called sweet, especially not by him.

“What are you grinning at?” Mick asks.

Rob nudges me with his elbow. “He’s probably messaging his other half. I only smile like that when my missus is promising me a blow job.”