I am loved.

A three-word reply arrives and the whole afternoon reorganises itself around it.

Was that short? Is something wrong? Have you become tiring to know?

Almost always it turns out they were on a train, or between two meetings, or the phone was at four per cent. The brevity was about their day. It was never a bulletin on your standing.

Being loved does not come with confirmation attached, which is uncomfortable for a mind that would very much like a receipt. What it comes with instead is evidence spread thinly across years — people who keep turning up, keep replying eventually, keep saving you the seat.