Watch me, follow me—if you can
But my suitcase is light
And my heart’s still beating
With hope-driven steps
To a place I can breathe
I snap awake.
Quick, before I forget!
I grab a pencil and the spiral notebook I use for songwriting. It was a birthday gift from Ellenor, covered in tiny snowy owls, and it’s crammed with years of half-finished lyrics and messy guitar tabs. Somehow, I always manage to find a bit of space to squeeze in more.
Settling onto the couch, I spend the next hour scribbling lines and humming to myself, chasing the melody I dreamt of before it fades away.
I pause only to fix myself an instant coffee and a toasted jam croissant, then move to sit on the sun-drenched balcony with my guitar.
There aren’t many pedestrians about, and most are across the road, walking dogs or pushing prams, too lost in their own world to notice me. I quietly pluck strings, but I soon set my guitar aside for another reason: this song really needs a high E.
And Ineed a proper coffee.
Trading pyjamas for stretchy jeggings and a T-shirt, I pull on a knitted hoodie. With my sneakers still damp, I opt for Ellenor’s glittery ballet flats.
I do my hair and makeup and head downstairs.
The house is quiet. Brandon must be at work.
A small pang hits to know he’s not here, but I quickly dismiss it. I should be moving on, not listening out for his footsteps, hoping to bump into him like some lovesick teenager.
I need to get on with my day.
First step: negotiating a truce with the espresso machine.
Unfortunately, we cannot agree on terms, and the gleaming hunk of steel glares back at me with the red blinking LEDs of a sworn adversary. Either that, or it’s signalling an error.
I mash a button with a coffee cup icon in vain, but the machine beeps in protest.
“Fine. Be like that,” I grumble.
“Good morning. Need a hand?”
Brandon’s voice startles me. I spin around so fast it’s a good thing my cup is empty. He’s standing in the doorway, hair dishevelled, rugged up in charcoal pyjamas and a maroon-and-tan striped dressing gown.
“Hi! I thought you were at work.” Panic skitters through me at the memory of last night, of almost kissing him, and I immediately busy myself at the sink, washing my hands for no reason whatsoever.
His cough draws my attention, and I really look at him this time. Pale, with shadows under his eyes.
“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve—”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he confirms, voice hoarse. “I’ve called in sick with the flu.”
My heart sinks. “I guess getting caught in the rain didn’t help.”
“No. Nor did getting dunked at the oyster farm.”
“Sorry about that.”
