Chapter 1
The floor sent chills through my legs as my feet met the cold wood just outside the carpet.
I pushed the curtains aside as I sat on the edge of the bed, I squinted as the pale grey sky met my sleep drunken eyes. My alarm went off again, playing that same cheerful tune as the last seven hundred and thirty something days, as I had pressed snooze one too many times. I sighed and stared out the window, people moved about, probably on their way to work, takeaway cups clutched in their hands.
Winter was at its edge now and that gloomy sad in-between seasons were in full force. London's weather still hasn't convinced me to like it. I longed for spring, sweaters instead of jackets, skirts and bare legs, the beautiful aroma of damp grass drying in the sunlight. I dragged myself to my small kitchen, tried to pry open the cabinet above the fridge without tearing it off its hinges.
After the third attempt I grabbed the can of coffee, stuck my nose breathing in the lovely scent that was going to be the start of my morning.
The coffee machine hummed slowly to life, and I leaned against the kitchen counter as it filled my cup with the closest thing I had to a daily ritual. The scent filled the small apartment, mingling with the damp smell of rain-soaked pavement from the half-open window in my bedroom.
I took a sip and let the morning settle slowly around me. This was my life. Same kitchen counter. Same morning. Same old routine.
The apartment was testament to my minimalist aesthetic, more like a lack of impulse purchases, a symphony of neutral tones. The couch, a shade of taupe that only could be described as “inoffensive”, held precisely the throw pillows, each arranged at an 45-degree angle.
The kitchen where the toaster oven resided in its designated corner, was so clean it could have doubled as a surgical theater. It was, in short, the physical manifestation of safe and calm.
I glanced at the clock on the microwave—7:42 AM. Just enough time to get to the office if I rushed, but I didn't feel like rushing. Not today. But I knew I would anyway, I am never late. I could already feel the weight of the week ahead pressing on my chest, the same meetings, the same faces, the same emails waiting in my inbox like a ticking clock, counting down until they swallowed my attention once more. Knowing what was about to happen made me feel safe and secure.
I hadn’t taken a real break in over a year, not since I had gone on that "quick weekend" to the Cotswolds with Claire, my sister. She had bullied me into following her there, complaining the whole way there that Cotswolds wasn’t even that exotic two hours out of London. I scoffed inwardly. Calling it a "quick weekend" was like calling a marathon a light jog. But Claire was always the spontaneous one, the one who could drop everything on a whim and decide to go somewhere, anywhere, to feel something. I went with her because she told me I needed to get a life. I have a life, this is my life. Calm, orderly, work… A perfectly normal life.
I was always the one who stayed behind, keeping everything in order, holding everything together. Taking care of everything and everyone.
But this time, it was different.
I pulled the envelope from my bag and opened it slowly, the thick cream-colored paper feeling almost foreign in my hands. It was an invitation, of course, Claire’s wedding invitation. Sent just last week, out of nowhere. To a wedding, in Italy.
I stared at it for a few seconds. "Italy..." I murmured. Was this really happening? Claire had barely said two words to me in the last year. And now she is getting married in Italy? To a guy I have never met. Of course I'd heard of him, I mean, my mother couldn’t stop mentioning him. He's so great, so good, so smart and so so so handsome. Well good for you Claire. Why don't you date, why did you break up with John? Why why why.
I set the invitation down with a sigh. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go, it was just… complicated. There were so many things left unsaid between us, me and Claire, things I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.
Claire had described her life in her apartment as “living in a Tupperware container”. “You’re like a living metronome”, she’d said last time we spoke. “Tick tock spreadsheets, tick tock chamomile tea”. Living a little was vastly overrated, I liked structure, I liked routine. It was glorious… Mostly. Or at least it was until her wedding in Italy threatened to disrupt my whole carefully constructed life.
But then the phone buzzed on the counter. It was Claire. As if she could see me, all the way from Italy.
“You’re coming to the wedding, right?”
I stared at the message for a long moment. This was the first text in several months.
I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell her I couldn’t handle the drama, the chaos of it all. Wedding, Italy, work. But something inside me, something that had been dormant for too long, it nudged me, telling me to say yes.
I hit reply, squinting at my phone.
“I’ll be there.”
