Amber

Amber hadn’t lived in her new apartment block long. The place still smelled of fresh paint and plaster dust, the kind of sterile scent that reminded her she was a stranger here. She didn’t know anyone who lived there, not yet, but the way the block was set up—thin walls, open balconies, doors that opened almost onto each other—she got the impression friendships weren’t optional. They happened quickly, whether you were ready or not. That was her hope anyway: that the silence of her small flat would one day be filled with laughter, familiar footsteps, maybe even the comfort of belonging.

The halls were narrow—so narrow Amber wasn’t even sure two people could pass each other without brushing shoulders. That, she figured, was exactly why friends would be made quickly here. Nothing broke down barriers faster than unintentional breaches of personal space. Awkward smiles, muttered apologies, maybe even laughter—that was how connections began, wasn’t it?

Amber hadn’t made any friends in her new town—though, in fairness, she hadn’t been here long enough to try. The move had been essential, the kind of uprooting that came with opportunity, and she wasn’t about to waste it. At twenty-two, Amber was proud of herself. Proud of the challenging work that had earned her the promotion, proud to carry the title of veterinary nurse in the quiet tiny town of Hadley. Still, pride didn’t always soften the edges of loneliness, and Hadley—with its unfamiliar streets and stranger’s faces—sometimes felt like a place holding its breath, waiting to see what she would make of it.

She had worked hard at university these last few years, pouring everything into her studies, and the effort had paid off. Landing this job wasn’t just a step forward—it was the first real marker of the life she’d always imagined for herself. As she looked around the tiny apartment, she now part-owned, a small smile tugged at her lips. It was modest, yes, but it was hers, every inch of it shaped by her hand.

When you’re a little girl, you dream of a perfect home, a space all your own. For Amber, this was that dream made real. Her little space. Her sanctuary. Sure, the hallway outside was dark and dingy, but in here—inside these four walls—she had built something warm, bright, and entirely hers.

The flat was small, but Amber had used every inch to its fullest. Her bedroom was her second favourite place in the world, a little sanctuary that felt both soft and inviting. The king-sized bed dominated the space, layered with crisp white sheets and scatter pillows that begged you to sink into them.

The walls were painted a delicate blush—a cliché, maybe, but pink had always been her favourite colour. The blinds were a clean white, framed by thick pastel curtains that spilled to the floor. They didn’t just soften the room; they promised quiet mornings and long, undisturbed sleep, shutting out the world whenever she needed.

Pictures dominated the walls—snapshots of her sisters, her friends, the people who still felt like home no matter how far she’d moved. Crazy nights out. Cozy nights in. Family occasions and celebrations, each frame capturing a moment she never wanted to lose. Her favourite memories lived here, pressed into photo paper, ready to be relived again and again whenever the silence of the flat felt too heavy.

Thinking of her sisters twisted Amber’s stomach with sadness. They were the one thing that could have held her back, the reason she almost didn’t take the job. She was one of five, the middle child in a house that never knew silence. Her elder twin sisters, Jade and Jesse, were twenty-four, followed by Beck at nineteen and Logan at seventeen. The house was always bursting with life, laughter, and the occasional screaming match.

When they weren’t squabbling over clothes, shoes, or makeup, they were huddled together, bonding over boys and music, their voices rising and falling in familiar rhythms Amber could still hear in her head. For now, she told herself she was enjoying the quiet—but she knew it wouldn’t last. Silence could so easily turn into loneliness.

What she did know, without a doubt, was that she was going to miss them fiercely. Because when all was said and done, for all the chaos and fights, her sisters weren’t just her family. They were her best friends.

Amber placed the last of her clothes into the built-in wardrobe and closed the door with a soft click. Her room was finally unpacked, finally functional. A space that felt like hers. She flicked the switch on the fairy lights strung across her vanity mirror, watching them glow to life in a scatter of warm light, chasing away the shadows. With a small, satisfied smile, she stepped out into the hallway, ready to face the rest of her new home.

The hall was limited and opened into the living room—small, yes, but perfect for her. She’d chosen pastel pink again; white felt too common, too cold, and she wanted colour, something to brighten the edges of her world. To block out the boring and the mundane.

The living room was defined by a large grey sectional sofa, softened with a scatter of fluffy white cushions. Matching pink curtains framed her favourite spot in the flat: the bay window. Or rather, what it had become—her reading nook. Her little sanctuary.

On either side of the window stood her pride and joy: shelves filled with books. Everything from the greats—The Great Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice—to her personal favourites like Zodiac Academy and Fourth Wing. Each spine was a doorway out of the ordinary, her own escape from reality.

Apart from a small television, one she knew she would barely use, that was it. Simple. Warm. Entirely hers.

The kitchen was small but practical, every corner tailored to her taste. White appliances gave it a clean, modern feel, while little pink details added her own splash of colour. The best feature, though—the one that made her grin every time she saw it—was the quirky breakfast bar. Realistically, there wasn’t space for it, but she’d squeezed it in anyway, covering the surface in glittery pink vinyl that was as easy to clean as it was unapologetically her.

A soft, contented hum escaped her lips as she looked it over. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it didn’t have to be. It was hers. Exactly what she wanted. And right now, the only person she needed to please is herself.

Speaking of tea, she filled the kettle and set it to boil, the familiar hum filling the little kitchen. A few minutes later she curled her hands around a mug of sweet white tea, the steam warming her face. With a satisfied sigh, she carried it to her bay window, slipped into her reading nook, and picked up her current escape—Throne of Glass.

Within moments she was gone, drawn deep into Sarah J. Maas’s world, losing herself in Celaena Sardothien’s story. The walls of her flat, the quiet hum of the building around her, even the ache of loneliness—all of it faded as the fantasy swept her away.