Epilogue Nora
My favourite colour is blue.
The blue of evening, just after the sun has gone, when the world softens into something quiet and bearable. I learned it by watching the window in Maeve’s apartment, night after night, as the light drained out of the town and left everything still.
My favourite drink is hot chocolate, extra milk, less sugar. I discovered this by accident. Kieran made it for me on a cold morning. When I took the first sip, a knot in my throat came undone. I didn’t know drinks could be chosen. I thought you just drank what was there.
My favourite place to sit is beside Kieran. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch, far enough that neither of us has to think about it. Because with him, silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels shared.
My favourite sound is rain hitting concrete in the early morning, when the world hasn’t fully woken up yet.
My favourite feeling is knowing I can leave if I want to. That my feet belong to me.
I like my eggs overcooked, edges crisped just right. I like sitting on the floor instead of the couch, my back pressed against something solid, something that doesn’t move.
I like walking instead of taking cabs, feeling the distance in my body, knowing exactly how far I’ve come.
These are things I know about myself now. Just small things. Chosen. Kept. Collected one by one.
It takes me three years to finish my studies. Three years of showing up. Of learning. Of building a foundation I can stand on.
It takes another year after that to save enough—to sign a lease, to step into a space that is mine and know I can stay there without counting every coin, without wondering how I’ll make it through the month.
One bedroom. One bathroom. A window that looks out at a brick wall.
It isn’t beautiful. But it’s mine. That matters more than anything.
I got the job offer two weeks ago.
Social worker. Entry level. The pay is modest. The hours will be long. The work will be hard.
But it matters.
I didn’t hesitate in saying yes.
Now everything I own is packed into boxes. Clothes. Books. Things I didn’t realize mattered until I had to decide whether to keep them.
The room looks different.
Stripped back. Bare. The walls empty where small traces of my life used to be. The floor clear. The corners echoing in a way they never did before.
I stand in the doorway longer than I need to. Taking it in.
This room held me through it all.
On nights when everything felt too loud, it gave me quiet. On mornings when getting up felt impossible, it gave me somewhere to start. It watched me learn how to exist on my own. It watched me change.
I step inside one last time, my gaze moving over the places where things used to be. The corner where I’d sit with my back against the wall. The window I’d stand by, watching the light change through the day.
There’s nothing left here now.
And that feels right.
I pick up the last box and carry it out.
Maeve is at the dining table when I step into the living room. Her elbows are spread wide, one hand wrapped loosely around a mug she’s forgotten to drink from. She looks up the second I step into the room, her eyes locking onto me with a focus that tells me she’s been waiting.
“I still don’t understand why you have to leave,” she says. “You could just stay here forever, you know.”
I set the box down and take the chair beside her.
“I know,” I say. “But I have to do this for myself.”
She exhales, dragging a hand down her face. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” She waves her hand, dismissive, but it lacks its usual force. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Later, there will be a small gathering at the café. Just the staff. Maeve insisted on it, of course—refused to let me slip out of this place without something that marks the moment.
But right now, it’s just us.
The house feels different today. The air carries a kind of awareness, as if it knows something is ending.
I draw in a breath. “Thank you.”
The words feel too small the second they leave me. Too light for everything I mean.
Maeve’s eyes narrow immediately, suspicion flashing through the softness.
“For what?”
I glance down at my hands, then back at her.
“For everything.” A grateful, trembling smile spreads across my face. “You changed my life. You saved me.”
A flicker of offense crosses her face. “No,” she says immediately. “No, Nora.”
She leans forward, her hand closing over mine. “You changed my life,” she says, her eyes locking onto mine, refusing to let me look away. “You made me shut up and actually listen. You made me stop thinking I know everything about someone five seconds after meeting them.”
A breath leaves her. “You made me better. Kinder. More patient. Less… full of my own assumptions.”
Emotion builds in my throat, thick and hard to swallow.
“And I didn’t save you,” she adds, her voice dropping, turning fierce in a way I’ve never heard before. “You did that yourself.”
My vision blurs at the edges.
She leans in closer, her eyes searching mine, making sure I hear her.
“You walked through that door,” she says.
“You asked for a job. You worked. You kept showing up. Every single day, even when it was hard.” Her hand tightens on mine.
“Both our lives would look very different if you hadn’t done that. ”
I swallow, my throat tight, unable to form a response.
“That was brave,” she says. “Even if you didn’t feel it at the time.”
I sit with it for a moment, then ask the question that’s been sitting at the back of my mind for years.
“Why did you hire me so easily?”
She blinks, caught off guard for a second, then smiles. “You looked like you had a story,” she shrugs. “And I wanted to know it.” Her expression shifts, a flicker of guilt passing through. “And then you told me, and I reacted like an idiot.”
A laugh slips out of me. “You did.”
She groans immediately, dropping her head into her hand. “I really did.”
“You learned,” I say. “That’s what matters.”
She lifts her head, watching me for a second longer than usual. Then she stands. The chair scrapes back across the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
And before I can react, she pulls me up and into her arms.
It’s sudden. Tight. Real.
Her arms lock around my shoulders, her fingers spread across my back like the roots of a great tree taking hold of the earth, and I feel the bones of her, the solidity of her, that stubborn, unyielding presence of her.
My arms come around her just as tightly, and the tears I’ve been holding back, hot, stinging, finally spill over. They fall without sound, without resistance, soaking into the shoulder of her sweater. I can taste salt at the corner of my mouth.
“I love you,” I say, the words pressed into her.
“I love you too,” she says, her voice shaking now, open in a way she rarely allows. Her voice cracks on the second word, and I feel her throat move against my temple. “So much.”
Her grip tightens, as if she can keep me here just a little longer if she holds on hard enough.
We stay like that.
Longer than necessary. Longer than comfortable.
Neither of us pull away.
Because we both understand what comes next.
And letting go means stepping into it.
*****
The café is already loud by the time evening settles in.
Chairs scrape. Voices overlap. Someone has pushed a cluster of tables together in the center, creating a space that feels fuller than usual, closer, warmer. The lights are a little too bright.
There’s a cake on the counter.
It leans slightly to one side, the frosting uneven, the edges a little rough where someone clearly tried to fix the buttercream and gave up halfway.
Too many candles crowd the top, wax already starting to drip.
The smell of it rises: vanilla, warm, with an undertone of butter that has been creamed a little too enthusiastically, and a faint, sweet sharpness from the food colouring.
My name is written across it in blue icing.
The letters aren’t perfect. They dip and tilt, a little shaky.
I stand there longer than I mean to.
Just… looking.
A cake with my name on it. A room full of people who stayed. This is for me.
“Cut it already,” someone calls from behind me, laughter tucked into their voice.
I blink, come back to myself, reach for the knife.
The first slice is uneven. Everyone cheers anyway. Hands clap. Someone whistles.
Someone else starts a speech that goes on far too long, filled with stories I barely remember living through, exaggerated until everyone’s laughing. Another voice cuts in, demanding the corner piece with extra frosting.
I laugh.
And then the goodbyes begin.
By the counter, someone pulls me into a quick hug and tells me I’ll be incredible at the new job.
Near the espresso machine, another presses a slice of cake into my hands and tells me to come back soon.
By the door, someone squeezes my shoulder and says it won’t be the same without me.
I promise to visit. I promise to text. I mean it every time.
At some point, I realize I haven’t seen him. I scan the room again, slower this time.
Every face.
Every corner.
Not him.
The room feels different because of it.
I slip away before anyone can stop me. Grab my jacket. Push the door open.
The noise falls away behind me.
Outside, the air is cooler. The street is quieter.
Kieran is standing near the side of the building, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. His head turns when the door opens.
When he sees me, his whole face changes. The hard line of his jaw loosens. The furrow between his brows smooths out. His eyes go bright, crinkling at the corners, and that relaxed, unguarded look I have come to know spreads across his features.
I walk toward him, my smile answering his. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he replies.
We stand there for a second, the café noise muted behind us, the world narrows to this small space between us.
“I wanted a minute.” He shifts his weight, his gaze holding mine. “Just us.”
“I did too.”