Page 34

it isn’t black and white

ELLIE

T he café wasn’t part of the plan this week. But the thought of staying home—of pacing the same rooms, hearing the same silence—made my skin itch. So I called Brenda, asked if she needed a hand, and she didn’t hesitate. Just told me to come in.

A few months ago, I thought I’d have my first nursing position lined up by now. I worked my arse off for that degree. Sacrificed sleep, sanity, and so much more.

But reality had other ideas.

Despite every headline screaming about nurse shortages, there are barely any openings. And the ones that do exist? They’re hours away, rotational positions I don’t want, or in specialties I don’t want to settle for.

So, I wait. Float. Exist. A severely overqualified barista.

The sound of the coffee machine hisses through the air, steady beneath the low hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of plates. The scent of fresh pastries, warm bread, and ground coffee beans wrap around me like a blanket I can’t quite feel. Comforting in theory, not in practice.

I keep myself busy. Wiping down counters, restocking sugar dispensers, counting out the till like I might find a version of myself buried under the coins. Anything to keep my mind from spiralling. Because if I stop, even for a second, it all comes rushing back.

The bed. The sheets. David’s body moving against hers like it was second nature.

My jaw clenches and I scrub at an invisible stain on the counter—harder than necessary.

I pour another cup of coffee and listen to the scrape of cutlery, the world continuing like it hasn’t even noticed mine’s unravelling.

At least here, everything is simple. Predictable and calm.

“Ellie, love, come sit for a minute.”

I glance up to see Brenda watching me from behind the pastry counter, concern etched into the fine lines of her face.

Her silver-blonde hair is tucked into a neat, low bun, stylish but effortless, like everything about her.

Crisp white shirt, soft grey cardigan, sleeves pushed up like she’s ready to tackle the mess she sees in front of her.

I force a smile, too tight to be convincing. “I’m fine, Bren. Keeping busy, that’s all.”

She doesn’t move. Simply crosses her arms and raises one brow.

It’s one of those looks that strips away your bullshit before you’ve even finished speaking.

“You’ve been keeping too busy,” she says plainly.

“You’re barely stopping long enough to breathe, let alone eat.

And I haven’t seen you look this tired in a long time. ”

I swallow, the dishcloth twisting in my hands like it’s absorbing the guilt. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Before I can say anything else, she tugs me into one of the corner booths and places a steaming cup of tea in front of me. The same way she always did when the world felt too loud.

My fingers wrap around the mug, clinging to the heat.

Back then, the first sip always brought comfort. Now it just burns. Too hot, too sharp, and too real.

“Alright,” Brenda says, sliding into the seat across from me. “Out with it.”

I blink. “What?”

She lifts a brow, her voice even. “Darling girl, I’ve known you since you were a teenager. You think I don’t notice when something’s not right?”

She nods toward the mug, still untouched in my hands. “You’ve been floating around this place like a ghost all week, and I’d bet my almond croissant recipe it has something to do with that man of yours.”

The breath leaves my lungs like someone’s punched it out of me. My grip tightens on the mug. I should tell her. I want to tell her. To tell someone. But the words sit heavy in my chest, unmoving. “Things... aren’t great,” is all I manage, voice flat.

Brenda doesn’t look convinced. “How not great?”

I shake my head, eyes falling to the surface of the tea as the steam curls into the air like a question I can’t answer. “I don’t really want to get into it right now.”

Her brows draw together, clearly weighing her next move. But then she exhales, reaches across the table, and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay,” she says softly.

No pressure. No judgement. Just Brenda, steady as ever. “What about your parents?”

A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Are you kidding? I don’t need reminding how much of a disappointment I am right now. It won’t be a conversation, Brenda. It’ll be a performance review. A tally of every mistake I’ve made, like they’ve kept all the receipts.”

Brenda’s lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t need to say anything. That look is enough. “Ellie, that’s not true.”

I shrug, staring down at my hands, picking at the skin around my thumb. “Isn’t it?”

She sighs and leans forward, taking both my hands in hers.

Her grip is warm. Steady. The way it always is when I feel like I’m falling apart.

“Ellie, love, when will you stop punishing yourself for your past? Every choice you’ve made led you here.

Look at you! You have Mia—a remarkable girl who adores you.

You have a degree. Made it through when most people would’ve given up.

You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet. ”

Her words sit heavy on my chest, too full of truth for me to brush away.

“I wish I knew what came next,” I whisper. “Because right now? I’ve got no idea.” I break off, swallowing hard. “I’m tired, Bren. So fucking tired. ”

Brenda gives me a small, reassuring smile. Her eyes, kind but unwavering. “Oh sweetheart. Sometimes not knowing is the first step to figuring it out. Life doesn’t follow a straight line. You’re still moving forward, even if the road’s a little bumpy.”

The knot in my chest pulls tighter. I nod slowly, the heat of the tea finally seeping into my skin.

Brenda runs a hand over her forehead, sighing through her nose before fixing me with a look that’s far too knowing. “Whatever this is... it breaks my heart to see you going through it alone.”

I don’t answer. But her words stay with me, lingering long after she gets up to tend the counter.

I know I’m not alone, and I know I have people who care—Brenda, Naomi, even Mia, in her own way, always watching with those wide, too-knowing eyes.

But there’s something about saying it out loud. About admitting that my life feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. It would make it too real. Too permanent. And worse. It would make me look like I haven’t learned a damn thing.

I press my fingertips to the side of the mug, grounding myself in the fading heat. My eyes drift to the door. Part of me wants to bolt. The other part wants to crawl into Brenda’s kitchen and hide.

And then, stitched into the fabric of my thoughts, I think of Kieran. We haven’t spoken since the morning after the bonfire. I’ve seen his name flash across my screen a few times, but I haven’t replied. Not because I don’t want to—because I don’t know how.

The lines feel blurry now—smudged by everything that’s happened since. I told myself it was better this way. Easier.

But I can’t help this quiet pull in my chest. An ache for the person who sees me. Who doesn’t ask for more than I can give.

I want to talk to him. But what would I even say?

Hey, sorry I disappeared. Life’s falling apart. Wanna unpack my emotional trauma over coffee?

Not exactly light conversation.

So, I stay silent. Let the thoughts pass like clouds.

And stare down into my tea like it might show me a version of myself that still knows what the fuck she’s doing.

By the time we pull into the driveway, the sky is turning gold. Long shadows stretch across the pavement, cast by the low-hanging sun. The air has that unmistakable edge—a quiet crispness that says summer’s finally giving way to autumn.

Mia hums along to the song still playing on her phone. Her school blazer crumpled in the back seat and her fingers toying absently with the friendship bracelet Claire made her last weekend.

She’d burst out of the school gates full of chatter about art class and the kid who had a biro explode in his mouth.

I’d done my best to keep up, to nod in the right places, to laugh where I was supposed to.

But now, as I kill the engine and the quiet settles in around us, the weight returns. Heavy. Inevitable.

David’s car is already in the drive and my stomach sinks—he’s home early.

All week, I’ve managed to avoid him. Slipping through the cracks of our shared routine like smoke. He doesn’t usually get back from the office until seven, and I’ve made sure I’m tucked away in the guest room long before then.

I pick up my phone from the passenger seat and stare at the message on the screen.

David [14:45]

Babe, can we talk this out? Barely seen you all week. I miss you.

I’d assumed he meant later. Tonight. When Mia was in bed and I had time to steel myself.

But no. He came home early.

Mia taps my arm, breaking my spiral. “Mum?”

I blink, dragging my gaze back to her face.

“Can I go to Claire’s?”

I nod, my voice catching in my throat. “Yeah, love. Course you can. But drop your bags in first.”

She smiles and climbs out, already humming again.

When we step inside, I notice it immediately. The house smells different. Not the usual faint trace of coffee, laundry detergent, and whatever remnants of lunch Mia’s left in her school bag.

No. This is sharp. Deliberate. Vanilla and fresh flowers. Manufactured comfort.

Mia kicks off her shoes, already halfway through another sentence. “I told Claire I’d bring my science project round. We’re finishing it for next Monday.”

Before I can even respond, she bolts up the stairs, her rucksack bouncing behind her. A second later, I hear her door thud open, then the creak of her wardrobe. Business as usual.

I stay in the hallway for a breath longer than necessary, keys still in my hand, coat still on.

The living room door is ajar.

He’s in there. I know it without looking.

And still—I look.