I nod again.
Maeve’s smile is genuine. It reaches her eyes. It crinkles the corners. “Perfect. I’ll get you on the schedule.” She slips back through the swinging door.
I draw a slow, shaking breath.
The air tastes different now. Still coffee. Still sugar. But an aftertaste lingers. A scent that might be mine.
Kieran smiles and offers a small, encouraging nod. A silent gesture that somehow makes me feel slightly less invisible.
I step back outside.
The cold hits my face. I didn’t realize how warm it was in there. My cheeks feel hot. My hands are shaking.
I start walking home.
The same street. The same sidewalk. The same house waiting at the end of it.
But a spark has lit. Small and new andmine.
For the first time in a very long time, I’m not walking toward Julian.
I’m walking toward Monday.
Chapter Seven: Nora
Three months.
Three months since I started working at the café. Three months since I opened a bank account in my own name. Three months since I held money I had earned—money that did not come from someone else’s hand, someone else’s permission, someone else’s decision about whether I deserved it.
Three months of a life that exists between the cracks of my old one.
The cracks are narrow. They are not meant to hold anything. But I have spent my whole life learning to fit into spaces that were not made for me.
Every morning I wake up at the same time I always have. I press the iron over Julian’s collar and watch the wrinkles disappear. I make breakfast. His plate goes on the table. His coffee mug beside it. His lunch already packed.
He sits. He eats. I stand at the counter and hold my mug without drinking.
He asks if I slept well. I say yes. He asks if I have plans for the day. I say no. He finishes his eggs, puts his plate in the sink.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
The door clicks shut. His car starts. The sound fades down the street.
I sit at the table. My eggs are cold now. They always are. I eat them anyway. I wash the dishes. I wipe the counter. I sweep the floor. Then I wait. Twenty minutes.
Every single day.
Just in case he circles back. Just in case he forgot his keys, his phone, his patience. Just in case he walks back through the door and finds me dressed to leave, finds me halfway out, finds me in the act of becoming someone he does not know.
Only when the street outside has settled into silence—no car doors, no footsteps, no engine idling too long—do I allow myself to leave.
The café is a fifteen-minute walk. I know every crack in the sidewalk. Every loose stone. Every driveway where a car might back out and see me. I keep my head down. My hair falls across my face.
I stop at the door every morning.
Every day, I stand here for thirty seconds and remind myself that I am allowed to go in. That Maeve is expecting me. That the floor needs mopping and the trash needs taking out and the world will not end if I turn the handle.
I open the door.
