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the space between

ELLIE

I wake up feeling lighter.

It’s unfamiliar, like stepping outside after a storm and realising the air is different. Cleaner somehow, easier to breathe. A weight I didn’t even know I was carrying has lifted, just enough to notice.

My mind, usually thick with fog the moment I open my eyes, feels… clear. Not empty. Just quieter. Like someone’s finally turned down the volume on the constant hum of worry I’ve learned to live with.

The kind that clings to your chest before you even get out of bed. That flicker of panic over everything and nothing all at once.

But right now, it’s like the static has softened.

No spiralling thoughts, no mental checklists screaming for attention. Just a rare, fleeting stillness.

I don’t trust it, not entirely—but I let myself breathe in it anyway.

Because these moments don’t come often.

And when they do, I’ve learned to hold them like something fragile.

I stretch beneath the covers, muscles stiff but loose in a way that suggests I slept well for once.

And then, uninvited but not unwelcome, Kieran’s voice floats through my thoughts. A warmth spreads through my chest before I can talk myself out of it. The memory of our late-night call wraps around me like a duvet.

I roll onto my side, watching the soft morning light spill through the curtains. The room is quiet, awash in gold and grey. A breeze skims my bare arms, light as a whisper.

I hadn’t expected this friendship with Kieran to slip back into my life. But it has.

And I like it.

My world has never been big. My circle? Smaller still. Naomi’s always been my constant, my person. The one who sees straight through me, calls me out when I pretend I’m fine, and loves me anyway.

But beyond her, it’s always been me holding everything together, carrying the weight, fixing what no one else sees.

The house is still. Mia’s still at her sleepover, and David won’t be home until later this afternoon.

I could stay curled in this moment, let myself soak in the rare calm of it all.

But there’s a buzz beneath my skin, a familiar itch for movement, for momentum, for anything but stillness.

So, I lean into the one thing that never fails me.

Work.

Or, more specifically, powering through my last stretch of unpaid shifts before I qualify.

The pace of the emergency department. The rhythm, the clarity, the way it demands my full attention and gives me no room to think about anything else.

I check the time, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and plant my feet on the cold floor. A short Sunday morning shift, not much, but enough to make the day feel useful. Enough to keep the rest of my thoughts at bay.

The department thrums with its usual chaos. Shouts echoing down corridors, monitors beeping in staccato rhythms, footsteps scuffing against linoleum. The air crackles with urgency, the sharp tang of antiseptic woven into every breath. There’s no mistaking where you are. Not for a second.

I move through it on instinct, clipboard in hand, Crocs squeaking against the floor. Nurses dart between bays like they’re caught in a current, doctors fire instructions across the department, and in the waiting room, restless patients shift in plastic chairs, tense and tired.

I’m not qualified yet. Not officially. But some days, I forget that. So does the team.

They don’t baby me. They don’t hold my hand. They just hand over charts and cases like I already belong here. And I do. At least, that’s how it feels on the good days.

Every shift stretches me. Sharpens me. Builds something in me I didn’t know I had. And I’m close now, so close I can taste it.

The noise, the pressure, the chaos. It should be overwhelming, but today, it’s exactly what I need. Because here, there’s no room to overthink. No space to spiral. There’s only the next patient. The next chart. The next moment I need to show up for.

A boy walks past me, maybe eight or nine, one hand clutching his mum’s and the other pressed to a paper towel taped over a cut on his eyebrow. His eyes are glassy, tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

I crouch to his level, softening my voice. “That’s a brave look you’ve got there.”

He gives the tiniest nod, bottom lip trembling.

I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the ‘warrior’ stickers I keep stashed for moments like this. “Here,” I say, sticking it on his T-shirt. “You earned this.”

His fingers graze over it like it’s gold and his mum mouths a silent thank you as I stand again.

And just like that, I’m back in it.

Another nurse calls my name, and then I’m moving—pulse check, wound cleaning, pain scale, chart. Next.

Later that afternoon, everything slows. The shift ends, and with it, the noise recedes. I peel off my scrubs like armour, each layer a little lighter, and trade the hospital’s harsh electric buzz for the soft, familiar comfort of home.

It’s quieter here. Gentler. No one is asking for anything, except snacks. And even that feels manageable.

Dinner’s a chaotic medley of use it before it poisons us. Oven chips, a sad handful of peas rescued from the bottom of the freezer drawer, and some questionable protein that might’ve once had a label but now lives purely on hope.

Mia talks non-stop about the weekend at her dad’s. The new puppy they got ( “tiny, yappy, traumatised the cat” ), the film they watched, and a boy who might have a crush on her ( “but he’s gross, obviously” ).

I nod. I laugh. I listen.

And somehow, without planning it, we end up tangled on the sofa. Blankets everywhere. A bowl of popcorn wedged between our knees. A rom-com already halfway through. I’ve missed the plot entirely, but I don’t care.

This is the part that matters.

“I swear, Mum, if Peter Kavinsky looked at me like that, I’d do literally anything,” Mia declares, jabbing a finger at the screen with an unfiltered intensity only teenage girls can pull off.

I snort, reaching into the bowl of popcorn and grabbing a generous handful. “Oh, for sure. That boy could convince me to take up extreme sports.”

Mia gasps in mock horror. “ Please . You almost fainted that one time we watched Mission: Impossible .”

“In my defence,” I argue, voice muffled through popcorn, “he was hanging off a literal glass building. With suction cups. My palms were sweating. I had a full-body stress response.”

She lets out a dramatic laugh, flopping sideways into the cushions and nudging me with her shoulder. “You’re so soft. It’s adorable.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “I’m soft? You still cry at The Lion King .”

“Wow. That’s so different, Mum” she says, eyes glued to the screen. “That’s traumatic.”

I grin. It’s just us, wrapped in layers of blankets on the sofa, the flicker of the TV washing warm light over the room. Popcorn everywhere. Her feet tucked under my legs in that familiar way that says I still need you , even if she won’t say it out loud anymore.

These pockets of time? They’re everything.

She feels so grown lately. But right now, with smudged mascara and her hair a little wild from lounging, she’s still my little girl. I glance at her profile, at the curve of her cheek, the way her mouth quirks with every swoon-worthy line of dialogue.

I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch or roll her eyes, just leans into the touch, soft and unthinking.

Then—

Bang.

The front door slams hard enough to rattle the frame on the wall. The moment shatters.

I jolt, pulse jumping.

Mia looks up at me instantly, eyes wide. She doesn’t say anything—but I feel her watching. Reading the tension in my shoulders.

I force a smile and soften my voice. “It’s okay, bug,” I murmur, brushing her fringe off her forehead. “Why don’t you go upstairs and see if you’ve got any homework to finish for tomorrow?”

She hesitates for a second, gaze flicking toward the hallway. Then she nods.

“Okay,” she says quietly, slipping off the sofa.

There’s no greeting from David. No, “Hey, I’m home.” Just the creak of floorboards, the rustle of a coat being hung, and the distant clink of glass.

It’s the silence that gets me. That familiar, calculated quiet. It slinks through the house, pulling something tight across my chest.

Because the last time he came home from a trip like this—I found out he’d been holed up in a casino for most of the weekend. Said it was networking . Said it was nothing. But a month’s wages disappeared into the kind of place where time doesn’t exist and daylight’s a rumour.

Now, every slammed door—and the hollow silence that follows—feels less like an entrance and more like a warning shot.

I gather the empty popcorn bowl, take a breath, and follow the sound of ice clinking into glass.

David stands at the kitchen counter, his back turned. He opens the drawer, rummages for the bottle opener, then cracks the cap off a beer with a low hiss.

He doesn’t move for a second—just stands there, one hand braced on the marble, fingers splayed like he needs the surface to keep him steady.

His shoulders are locked. Spine too straight. Like he’s holding something in with sheer posture alone.

There’s a weight to him tonight. Folded in. Quiet. Sealed shut.

“Hey,” I whisper, not wanting to startle him. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

A lie—but it buys me a second to find my footing.

David doesn’t look up. Just tosses the bottle cap onto the counter and lifts the bottle to his lips. “Long weekend,” he mutters.

I nod, hovering in the doorway like a guest in my own kitchen. “How was the trip? Everything go okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long to mean nothing. His jaw tightens. “Yeah. Fine. Stressful, but… fine.”

He says it like a door closing. Full stop. End of discussion.

I cross the room slowly and set the popcorn bowl in the sink, trying to keep my tone light. “You were meant to be back hours ago. I thought maybe?—”

“ Fuck, Ellie! ” His voice snaps like a wire pulled too tight. “I said I’m fine.”

I flinch, blinking hard. “I was just asking,” I say. “You don’t have to snap.”