Now that they were gone he felt a little lost. Moving away had been an exciting adventure; but after that, then what?

It was wonderful, of course. They had the same things at home – pastries, coffee, cocktails, small plates – but they were so much better here. The flat white was available everywhere, but nowhere else had invented it.

Yet their being here had made it feel like home, and better than ever before. He had been content in a way he had not realised was missing. So now that they were gone he missed them, and felt worse than he did before.

The rain came from the sea over which they left. It illuminated the grey that the sun had obscured. It would have been better had they not come at all.

He asked the taxi driver to drop him at the supermarket. There he searched for reminders. Tea cakes and crumpets, pickle and pear drops, jelly babies and barmbrack. Pies and scones and slice. He filled a trolley.

Before they visited, he sought out cultural differences to make the place unique. He delighted in even the smallest diversion; willed them into being, to push his experience beyond its internationalist haze, beyond his location-neutral millennial plasterboard dream.

Now, he was delighted to find so many reminders of home. This was a country built by home sick colonisers, a failed facsimile that destroyed what was already there, before they even thought to preserve it.

Once home, he opened every packet, and ate a little of each. He felt sick. He thought about the food miles spent on his purchases. Such a long journey, just so he could feel at home so far away, and worse than ever.

He tracked their flight home online, on and off. It was a long flight; spread over two days. The plane was due to land as he slept, and he didn’t think to set an alarm.

He woke and refreshed the page. The flight had gone. He refreshed and searched again. He scoured the route for them. There were so many planes flying at once. From down here, looking down from above, it looked impossible. Wouldn’t they crash?

Then he felt something grow in him; he was scared. He opened the news and it brought him what he was dreading. Flight 225, missing over the Indian Ocean.

This was his fault. He had brought them here, so they had to return, just for him to feel at home? They should have stayed there and he should have never left.

As he watched the concerned reporting on his television, his phone rang. ‘Mum’ it said. Someone had found her phone. What else had they found? Or they were mid-air. Hi-jacked. This was goodbye. He waited a second, and answered.

His mother’s voice came to him. She wasn’t scared, instead she sounded tired and happy. He could hear traffic in the background. His sister chatting. The flight had been long, but they had slept a little. They missed him, but they were happy to be home.

When she hung up he turned back to the television. Staring at the ashen faces of the soon to be grieved, he felt a powerful, desperate, ecstatic, overwhelming relief.            

He munched on an already open bag of Wotsits. Perhaps he would go out for breakfast. For folded eggs and a flat white.       

– Will Meehan