By the time morning light starts creeping through the windows, I've filled six pages with something that might be poetry, a new story idea or might just be a breakdown.
The line between them gets blurrier every day.
"You look like hell,"Camilla observes over coffee, not unkindly.
I catch my reflection in the kitchen window and wince.
Shit, I do.Dark circles, pale skin, hair doing its own rebellious thing.
She slides a piece of toast across the tiny table.
"Eat.And don't even think about telling me you're not hungry."
I take a bite to appease her, even though my stomach feels like it's tied in knots.
"I'm serious about what I said," she says, not looking at me."About you talking to someone."
"I know."
"Do you, though?Because you've been saying you'll think about it for months now and I know right now I'm being a pushy bitch but I just care, which is like, really rare for me."
I set down my toast.
"Cam, I appreciate the concern, I really do.But I'm handling it."
"Nor," She finally meets my eyes."Waking up in a frantic state every night this past week doesn't exactly scream 'handling it' to me."
The words sting because they're true.
I've been telling myself I'm fine, that time will heal everything, that I just need to be patient.But eight months feels like long enough to at least sleep through the night.
"Look," I say, standing up and grabbing my bag."I promise I'll actually think about it this time.But right now I need to get to work or I'll be late."
Camilla's expression softens."Nor?—"
"I love you for caring.You know that, right?"
"Of course I do.I just want you to care about yourself the same way."
I hug her as I pass."Working on it."
"Yeah, well work faster before I have to stage an intervention.And by intervention, I mean I'll call your mom."
The morning air hits my face as I step outside, crisp and sharp with the promise of spring.London in May feels like possibility and change, even when you're walking to the same job you've had for eight months.
Macmillan And Sons sits wedged between a used bookstore and a café that makes terrible coffee but excellent people-watching opportunities.It looks exactly like what central casting would order for "small but prestigious literary publisher"—narrow building, worn brick facade, windows that haven't been updated since the seventies.
I push through the glass door, breathing in the familiar smell of old paper and fresh coffee from the good machine upstairs.This place has become my sanctuary, the one space where I feel like I'm building something instead of just surviving.
"Well good morning to you."Liam looks up from his desk where he's sorting through a stack of query letters.
His smile is warm and genuine, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes something flutter uncomfortably in my chest.
"Morning.You're here early."
"Could say the same about you."He stands, pushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead."Though I suppose neither of us is known for our conventional scheduling."
Liam moved to Macmillan around the same time I started my internship with the publishing house.We bonded over late nights, strong coffee, and a shared love of authors who died tragically young.He's brilliant and kind and has this way of looking at me like I'm worth paying attention to.
