Twenty Two
The Morning After
MIA
SUNLIGHT STREAMS THROUGH THE thin curtains of my mum’s spare room, casting a pale glow over the floral wallpaper that hasn’t changed since I was a teenager.
I blink against the light, my head pounding faintly from last night’s champagne. For a blissful moment, I don’t remember.
I don’t remember the confrontation, the tears, Austin’s voice breaking under the weight of my lies.
And then it hits me like a freight train.
I stare at the ceiling, the ache in my chest blooming anew.
I’m in the same bed where Austin kissed me for the first time, the one that wasn’t part of the show.
He’d leant in, brushing my hair from my face, and kissed me softly—hesitantly—as though testing the waters.
I remember thinking, This isn’t pretend anymore.
Now, it feels like that moment belongs to someone else. Someone braver. Someone who didn’t push him away.
I turn my face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of lavender fabric softener, and let the memories wash over me.
His smile when I teased him, the way his hand would find mine in a crowded room like it was second nature, the sound of his laugh—rich and unrestrained, as though he never doubted the world was good.
The thought of never hearing that laugh again makes my chest constrict so tightly I think I might stop breathing.
A soft knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts. “Mia?” my mum calls gently. “Breakfast in fifteen, love.”
I croak out a reply, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The room tilts slightly as I stand, and I press a hand to my temple, willing the dull ache in my head to subside. My body feels heavy, like I’ve trudged through quicksand.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up in my hand. Half of me hopes for a message from Austin, a sign that he’s willing to talk, that he hasn’t given up on me entirely.
But the screen is blank.
No texts.
No missed calls.
What did I expect? That he’d chase me after the things I said? That he’d try to fix what I deliberately broke?
I force myself down the stairs, still in the clothes I slept in—an old hoodie and sweatpants that feel like a poor shield against the weight of my emotions.
The smell of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, but it does little to stir my appetite. If anything, it has the opposite effect.
My parents and my cousin Charlotte are already seated at the breakfast table, my dad engrossed in the Sunday paper while my mum bustles around the kitchen, her movements brisk and efficient.
“Mia, there you are!” Mum smiles brightly, placing a plate loaded with a full English breakfast at my usual spot. Her eyes dart toward the staircase behind me. “Where’s Austin? Still getting ready?”
I freeze, the lie already forming on my tongue. “He—uh, he had to leave early this morning. Work emergency.”
Mum frowns, setting down the coffee pot. “On a Sunday?”
My dad peers over the edge of his newspaper, his brows knitting together. “What kind of emergency does he have on a Sunday?”
I shrug, forcing a nonchalance I don’t feel. “I don’t know, dad. I didn’t ask for the details.”
Mum purses her lips, clearly skeptical, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she sits down and begins buttering a slice of toast. Dad, however, isn’t so easily convinced.
“He seemed pretty relaxed last night for a man about to have a work crisis,” he mutters, turning a page.
I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my gaze fixed on the plate in front of me. “Well, it came up late,” I say, stabbing at a piece of sausage with my fork.
The conversation shifts to mundane topics—my mum’s plans for the garden, my dad grumbling about the state of the economy and the current government—but I feel their eyes on me, their questions hanging in the air like smoke.
The plate in front of me is a masterpiece of breakfast perfection: crispy bacon, golden scrambled eggs, perfectly grilled tomatoes.
But the mere thought of eating makes my stomach twist into a tighter knot.
I push beans and eggs around the plate, taking the occasional sip of orange juice to appear engaged.
Every bite feels like lead on my tongue, every swallow an effort.
My thoughts are a mess of last night’s words—his words, my lies.
I love you.
I’d thrown it back in his face. Torn down the one thing that had felt real in a long, long time.
Liar.
The word echoes in my head, over and over.
The scrape of a chair pulls me from my thoughts. Charlotte stands, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “Ready to head out, Mia? I’ve got to leave in ten if I’m going to make my flight.”
I nod quickly, grateful for the excuse to escape. “Yeah, just let me grab my bag.”
Charlotte’s rental car smells faintly of the bog standard vanilla air freshener, the same air freshener you smell after someone has been in the toilet. The smell that is almost worse than what it is trying to mask.
The radio hums softly in the background, the upbeat tune doing little to lift the heavy silence between us. The chatter from breakfast clings to me, like a second skin I can’t shake off.
Charlotte clears her throat, breaking the quiet. “You ok?” she asks, her voice gentle but probing, the kind of tone that comes with years of knowing exactly how to read me.
“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Just tired and hungover.”
Her eyes flick toward me, skeptical. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”
I manage a weak laugh, more out of habit than humor. “I’m fine, really.”
She doesn’t push, but the air in the car grows heavier, her silence saying everything she doesn’t.
Outside my window, the city blurs past, a kaleidoscope of brick buildings and rain-streaked glass. The familiarity of it feels both comforting and suffocating. This is my life. The life I built. But it’s also the life where I just told the only man I’ve ever loved that I don’t love him.
When we pull up outside my flat, I hesitate, gripping the strap of my bag so tightly my fingers ache. The sight of the building—the chipped paint on the doorframe, the balcony where I’ve spent countless sleepless nights staring at the city lights—feels like a punch to the gut. It’s our building.
“Need help with your bag?” Charlotte offers, her voice soft, like she’s afraid I might shatter if she speaks too loudly.
“No, I’ve got it,” I say, forcing another smile that I know doesn’t reach my eyes.
She leans over, pulling me into a quick hug. “Take care of yourself, ok?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, my throat too tight to say anything more.
Her car lingers for a moment after I’ve shut the door behind me. The sound of the engine idling is almost comforting in its steadiness. But then she drives off, and the silence hits me like a freight train.
Inside the flat, the stillness is oppressive.
The air feels thick, stagnant with the weight of memories I can’t escape.
His aftershave still lingers faintly on the cushions, like a ghost that refuses to leave.
A mug catches my eye. The mug that he drank his morning coffee from, still on the counter where he left it.
I drop my bag by the door with a sigh. The thud echoing louder than it should. I walk over to the sofa and sink into it. The cushions sag beneath me, as though they too are exhausted from the weight of my mistakes.
I bury my face in my hands, my palms dampening against the tears that come fast and hard, wracking my body in waves that feel endless.
The realisation is as sharp as it is unbearable. I told him I didn’t love him. I let him walk away. I pushed him out of my life because it was easier than admitting I’m terrified of losing him.
And now, I’ve lost him anyway.
I let out a shaky breath, wiping at my cheeks, but the tears don’t stop. The pain feels like it’s carving itself into my bones, leaving marks that will never fade.
The flat is so quiet it feels alive with the absence of him.
He’d almost completely moved in recently.
Choosing to sleep at mine, rather than his much bigger flat.
It’s so eerily quiet. There’s no hum of his voice as chats endlessly about nothing and everything.
No sound of his footsteps pacing around while he talks on the phone.
I glance toward the balcony door, the curtains still half-drawn. It was less than forty-eight hours ago that I sat out there with him, wrapped in a blanket and his arms, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.
I told myself I didn’t need him, that I could survive on my own.
But this doesn’t feel like surviving. This feels like falling apart.
My phone buzzes faintly from where it’s tucked into my bag, and for a brief, wild moment, hope surges in my chest.
Maybe it’s him.
Maybe he’s calling to say he understands, that he sees through my lies.
I scramble to grab it, my hands shaking, but the screen is just an email notification about a sale at some online store I barely remember signing up for.
The disappointment is crushing, and I let the phone fall to the sofa cushion beside me, my shoulders slumping under the weight of disappointment.
I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at nothing, the hours stretching into an eternity. But one thought keeps looping through my mind, over and over.
I love him.
I love him.
And I let him go.
I press my hands into my thighs, grounding myself in the sting of my nails digging through the fabric of my joggers. The ache in my chest is unbearable, but I refuse to cry again. I’ve cried enough. Haven’t I?
The mug catches my eye again. It’s ridiculous, but it’s like it’s mocking me—proof of his presence, his routines, his us.
My throat tightens as I reach over and pick it up. I should put it in the sink. Wash it. Clear it away. But instead, I pick it up, clutching it to my chest like a lifeline. I bring the mug to my lips, not for the taste but for the connection. It’s absurd and pathetic, but I don’t care.