EMMA
London smelt like wet pavement, the way it always did in the spring. I had been back for almost two weeks and I had already fallen into the rhythm of hopping off the Tube, weaving through crowds of umbrellas, and going into shops to shake the drizzle out of my hair. It felt familiar. Easy. Safe.
Then I walked into the National Gallery.
I took the same route I had taken dozens of times before, past people craning their necks to see the famous paintings they had only ever read about, and past schoolchildren being rounded up by enthusiastic teachers.
I went straight to the room I always do, sat on the bench, and let myself look at the paintings that have held me up for years.
The colours and brushstrokes still calmed me.
But this time, I was restless, like I was meant to be somewhere else. With someone else.
I stayed longer than I meant to, watching people drift past. A little boy stopped in front of a painting of a hockey match on a frozen pond – tucked away on the far wall, small and easy to miss.
His mum bent to whisper something and he grinned, pretending to skate on the marble floor.
I don’t know why it undid me. Maybe because, for a second, I could see Max – the tilt of his shoulders, that intense look in his eyes.
I’d spent weeks telling myself leaving was brave, that distance would bring clarity, but all it did was make the world quieter, duller.
I missed him. Max. The way the cold used to burn my lungs when I waited for him outside the rink, my fingers numb even through my gloves, watching him tap the glass twice before coming out, letting me know he’d seen me.
I tried not to think about him, but he always found his way back into my thoughts.
I missed the way he always made me laugh when I was too serious, the steady hand at the small of my back, and the stupid chocolate biscuits he always “accidentally” bought too many of, just because he knew I liked them.
London was supposed to be enough. It normally was. But now… it just wasn’t.
I walked out into the cold, past taxis crowded around Trafalgar Square. The traffic lights smeared red on the wet pavement, and for a moment I considered heading home, packing my bags and going back. But I wasn’t ready to admit that – not even to myself. So I kept walking.
When I got to my parents’ house, the weight of it was heavy in my chest. Mum was in the kitchen, with her sleeves rolled up and fussing over something on the stove.
Dad looked up from his newspaper, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. “You look thoughtful,” he said, as he carefully folded the paper.
“I am,” I admitted, taking off my coat. “I’ve been walking all day trying to figure it out. And I still don’t know.”
Mum turned around with a spoon in her hand. “Figure what out?”
I sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, tired all of a sudden. “Where I’m supposed to be. I thought that coming back here would feel like coming home. And in some ways, it does. But…” I hesitated, the words knotting up in my throat. “But I think I might have left home behind when I left Max.”
Mum put the spoon down and looked at me properly. Dad didn’t say anything, but the silence was warm and patient, like it always was when he was waiting for me to find the right words.
The confession slipped out before I could stop it. “I’m afraid that if I go back, I’ll be giving up everything I’ve built here. But if I don’t…” I stopped talking because I didn’t trust myself to finish.
Dad cleared his throat and took off his glasses. “Did you know,” he said, his voice suddenly bright and deliberate, “that hockey players can reach speeds of more than twenty miles an hour on the ice? That’s faster than most people ever run.”
I blinked at him. “That’s… impressive.”
Mum rolled her eyes affectionately. “For heaven’s sake, Richard, you’re not helping.”
“I am. Because Emma gets it. She knows what it feels like when Max’s world starts sneaking into hers. She wouldn’t even be listening to me go on about the rush of a breakaway if she didn’t care.”
“You’ve been reading up again.”
“Of course,” Dad said, sounding almost smug. “You were right; it’s not just a game. It’s about speed, teamwork, and guts. And… well, I wanted to understand him a little better, too.”
It was such a simple thing, but it got to me. “Dad…”
“I can’t tell you what to do, Emma. Neither can your mum. But I recognise it when you talk about him. That same look I had when I first met your mother. Like you’ve found something you didn’t know you wanted.”
Mum squeezed my shoulder. “Darling, we can’t decide for you. Only you know what feels right. But we’ll support you no matter what.”
I stared down at my hands, tracing the lines on my palms like they might show me the way. Dad was right about the guts it took to play the game – but I realised it takes even more guts to admit when you’ve made a mistake. And I finally knew what I couldn’t give up.