I turn to go.
She’s meant for more than this café. More than these walls. This cramped table. These borrowed minutes. She deserves more than gathering pieces of knowledge in whatever time she can steal. More than making do with whatever she’s given. She was outgrowing the very air of this place.
She’s building something. Brick by brick. With hands that never stop moving. She’s going to reach it. She’s going to step into that life and live it fully, without holding back, without shrinking herself to fit into anything less.
She’s already on her way.
I can already see her there, living a life that fits her fully. One where she doesn’t have to hold herself back. One where she doesn’t have to dim, or adjust. One where she’shappy.
I pause, my hand resting against the door, and glance back.
She’s still there, bent slightly over her book. Focused on whatever is in front of her, completely absorbed, unaware of anything beyond that moment.
For a second, I just stand there and look.
The thought slips in before I can catch it.
I hope—desperately, honestly, selfishly—that somewhere in the life she’s building, I still have a place.
Chapter Nineteen: Nora
Maeve is looking at me with puppy eyes.
Her chin dips. Her lips push forward into an exaggerated pout. Her lashes flutter, overdone, fully aware of what she’s doing.
“Please,” she says, drawing the word out. “Can you do the laundry this week?”
I blink at her. “But I did it last week,” I say slowly. “And the week before that.”
She doesn’t deny it. She just groans and lets herself flop dramatically onto the arm of the couch, limbs splayed. “I know,” she whines, draping a hand over her forehead. “I know. But I’m so tired, Nora. I just want one week where I don’t have to think about separating whites and colours or forgetting a sock in the machine. Please.”
Sheistired. I can see it in the shadows under her eyes, in her slumped shoulders, in the faint rasp in her voice. The café has been busier than usual. She’s been there from open to close, stepping in wherever she’s needed, handling a thousand small crises that never make it onto any schedule.
For a split second—just one—I feel the old instinct twitch.
The automaticfine. The reflexiveI’ll handle it. The part of me that keeps the peace by taking up as little space as possible, by asking for nothing, by absorbing the small burdens of other people so they don’t have to feel them.
But then I pause.
I picture the café. The early mornings. The late nights. My notebooks spread open on the kitchen table, numbers blurring together because I’ve been pushing my brain to learn things it was never allowed to learn before.
I feel the tiredness in my bones. It goes beyond sleepiness, a deeper weariness weighing through me.
I straighten. “No.”
Maeve’s pout freezes mid-beg.
I look her in the eye. “We’re equals. I did laundry two weeks in a row. Your turn.”
She opens her mouth.
I hold up one finger. “I’m tired too. And it’s not my turn.”
Maeve’s face transforms. Her smile spreads wide, bright, reaching her eyes, crinkling the corners. Her whole expression opens, warmth flooding through it.
“Finally!” She throws her hands up, a burst of relief breaking through her.
I stare at her, caught off guard. “What?”
