Page 68

the ones who show up

ELLIE

T he smell of burnt toast and hairspray fills the air.

Naomi’s got one hand wrapped around a coffee mug and the other wielding a curling iron like a weapon, standing in front of the hallway mirror with total concentration.

Her hair’s half done. Wild curls pinned in sections, steam hissing as she twirls another strand around the barrel.

I’m leaning against the doorframe with my dress zipped only halfway up, a mascara wand clamped between my teeth like a rogue makeup artist in crisis.

“This is surreal,” she says around a mouthful of coffee. “We did it.”

I grunt in agreement, lips stretched wide around the wand, then give up and yank it out. “I know. Like, this is happening. Today.”

“Our names on certificates. Official and everything.”

“Actual adults.”

Naomi snorts without looking away from the mirror. “Don’t push it.”

Mia drifts past the bathroom like she’s already got somewhere better to be. She’s dressed in a collared shirt and blazer combo that looks like one of Naomi’s old school dance outfits, toast in her hand and a smirk on her face.

“You two are so dramatic,” she says, and disappears down the hallway before we can answer.

I catch Naomi’s grin in the mirror. “Wait ‘til the ceremony, kid. You’ll be crying into your programme.”

“I’ll be yawning into it,” Mia calls back, voice light and teasing.

I step into the bedroom and pause in front of the full-length mirror.

My dress, which felt like a fun splurge when I bought it weeks ago, looks…

grown-up. Like something someone else might wear.

Navy satin, soft and weightless, with spaghetti straps and a low, scooped back.

Paired with matching stilettos and a clutch that holds approximately three items, I almost look like someone who has her life together.

Almost.

Naomi appears in the doorway, her eyes trailing over me from head to toe before she lets out a low whistle. “Okay. Yeah. If we don’t get handed awards today just based on hotness alone, I’m calling the Dean.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s heat in my cheeks. “Do I look alright?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “You look unreal .”

I reach up to adjust a loose curl near my temple, fingers shaking. My hair’s pinned up in soft waves. The kind that took three attempts, too much hairspray, and several creative swears. But now that it’s done—I look like me. Just a version of me that’s made it through.

I lift the straps of my dress higher, trying to settle the nerves, and Naomi steps in behind me to zip me up.

We catch each other’s reflections in the mirror.

For a moment, everything stills. The clothes, the makeup, the effort.

It’s not just dressing up. It’s marking something.

A threshold. A line in the sand between who we were and who we’re becoming.

“Proud of you,” Naomi says, her hand resting against my shoulder.

My throat tightens. I bump into her hip. “Right back at you.”

She smirks and spins, pointing to her back. “Now zip me up before one of my boobs tries to make a break for it.”

I laugh and do as I’m told, dragging the zipper up her dress.

It’s black velvet and unapologetically bold.

Off-the-shoulder with a sweetheart neckline and a fit so snug it looks painted on.

Her curls are half-finished but already dramatic, and with her heels and that dark red lipstick she only wears when she wants to feel invincible, she looks like she could storm a runway and burn it down after.

“You look like vengeance,” I say, stepping back.

She turns, pleased. “That’s the goal.”

Mia appears again in the hallway, still holding her toast like a prop, eyeing us both with a dramatic sigh. “Seriously, you two look like you’re going to the Oscars.”

Naomi tosses her dark curls. “As we should.”

“Ugh,” Mia groans, reaching for the umbrella. “I’m pretending I don’t know you.”

Naomi links her arm through mine as we follow Mia down the stairs and into the hallway, the last echoes of burnt toast and perfume trailing behind us.

“Best morning ever,” she declares.

And she’s not wrong.

The taxi ride is quieter than I expected.

Naomi’s scrolling through her phone, probably checking the post she just uploaded of us all glammed up in the hallway mirror.

Her lips curl in amusement every so often, the screen lighting up her face in soft flashes.

Mia’s got one earbud in, eyes trained out the window, fingers tapping against her knee to whatever beat she’s listening to.

Her dress is neat, her hair brushed and tucked behind her ears, but the slight smudge of chocolate on her lip betrays the caramel bar she snuck earlier.

As we head closer to the city, I watch it slip past the window. Bathed in grey light and softened by drizzle, the weather that usually feels like a warning. But today, it doesn’t weigh me down. If anything, it makes everything feel gentler, quieter.

Red brake lights blur on the glass, flickering like a pulse. The buildings roll by, some old and familiar, others newer, but they all look a little softer today. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s just me.

Because for once, my thoughts aren’t spiralling. Not full of dread, not of doubt, just still. Settled.

But, of course, graduation had to be in November. Nothing screams celebration like damp tights and numb fingers. And the British weather never misses its cue. Waits until everyone’s done their hair, pinned their hats, buttoned up their best coats, and then swoops in right on time.

My curls don’t stand a chance. The minute I step out of the taxi, they’re going to frizz like I’ve just licked a socket.

But still. It’s surreal.

It’s graduation day.

The words settle in my chest, weighty in a way that feels good. Like something earned. Like something that’s mine.

There were so many nights I didn’t think I’d get here, nights spent trying to be everything at once. A mum. A partner. A student.

Nights where I studied with Mia asleep beside me, a highlighter in one hand and a grocery list in the other. Mornings I walked into lectures already hollow from a night shift. Afternoons I pretended I wasn’t running on caffeine and sheer willpower.

Even now, the memory of all those days I white-knuckled my way through still lingers like a bruise just beneath the surface.

But I made it.

We made it.

The taxi slows as we pull up outside the hall, and the buzz hits instantly.

Umbrellas bloom like flowers over the crowd, some barely holding up against the drizzle.

People spill across the pavement in caps and gowns, clustered around parents, friends, whoever scored a ticket.

There are camera flashes, last-minute hair fixes, the occasional panicked shout about forgetting something.

It’s chaotic. Joyful. Loud in the best way.

I spot her before she sees me.

Brenda.

She’s by the entrance, coat already dotted with rain, holding an umbrella that’s far too big for her and looking like she wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

I don’t hesitate. I shuffle over, heels clicking against wet pavement, heart full before she even says a word. “You made it!” I say.

“Of course I bloody did,” she huffs, pulling me into a hug that squeezes all the air out of me. “Look at you, my girl.”

She pulls back and does that thing she always does. Gives me the once-over, like she’s checking for damage, but only the kind that matters. Her eyes shine.

“You look like a movie star.”

I flush, still not used to this kind of praise. “Thanks, Bren.”

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, eyes soft. “Go make us proud.”

Inside the hall, the chaos only grows.

Graduates stream in from all sides. A sea of black gowns and flapping sleeves.

The building smells like old books and floor polish, echoing with the sounds of clattering heels and nervous laughter.

Staff bustle around with clipboards, calling names and pointing people toward roped-off areas.

Naomi and I are ushered toward the gown collection, where a frazzled woman hands us robes that smell of starch and pressure.

We step into a side room to don our gowns, and there’s something sacred about it, like a rite of passage.

Naomi’s adjusting the pleats of her gown in the mirror while muttering about boob sweat. I’m trying to figure out if my hood is supposed to sit this high on my neck or if I’m being strangled by academic tradition.

“You know where you’re sitting?” An usher asks as we’re handed a seating plan.

“Third row, left side,” Naomi says, scanning the paper.

I take a deep breath and glance around. So many faces I barely recognise. So many others I’ve known for years, some who nearly quit, some who made it look effortless. We’re all stitched together now by the same thread.

The ceremony hall is grander than I expected.

All vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows glowing in the rain-dimmed light, and long rows of chairs creaking beneath the shuffle of bodies.

The space hums with nerves. We take our places—robed and sweating—the buzz in the room vibrating like a tuning fork under my skin.

Naomi leans in. “I swear, if I trip walking across that stage, you better pretend you don’t know me.”

I laugh, but it’s breathless. “ Please . I’m wearing stilettos. If anyone’s going down, it’s me.”

“You could’ve worn flats.”

“I wanted to feel put together for once.”

“You’re gonna feel put together when you stack it face-first into the podium.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Anytime.” She quips.

We share a grin then, but beneath it, the tension sits heavy. This is it. The culmination of all those nights on Naomi’s living room floor with textbooks open and wine in hand, making promises we weren’t sure we could keep.

And now we’re here.

The ushers move. We rise with the row ahead of us, edging toward the stage, gowns swishing against our legs, nerves twisting tight in our chests.

Naomi turns and gives me one last wink. “See you on the other side.”