Page 47 of Beyond the Blues

After the plane ride, which felt ten times longer with my constant thoughts and occasionally crying, I’m finally home. Home. Even from thousands of feet high, I love being able to look out the window and spot the familiar places in London I know. I almost ran through the airport, and for once I stood up in the plane before everyone hadleft the plane. I walk through the arrival gates and my mum is standing there. In her usual outfit of a jumper and leggings, her hair tied up in a bun and glasses sitting on the tip of her nose. She smiles at me and opens her arms up, ready for me to land right into them. I press myself into her and for the first time in hours, I finally feel like I can breathe.

“I’m sorry Mum.”

“I’m sorry too, baby.” She presses a firm kiss on top of my head, and I soak up the smell of her clothes. You know how everyone’s house has their own smell that they can’t really smell? Well every time I’m away from home for

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a while and reunite with my family, I smell that heart-warming scent ten times stronger. As we walk up to the car, I notice my dad in the front seat. Of course, getting out to greet me at arrivals would be too much for him. He looks up from his lap and notices me pushing open the car door and embracing me into a hug. He’s taller than me and makes me feel like a child every time he holds me. Despite how hard this day has been, this has all made it worth it.

Home. My bed freshly made, my desk the same as I left it. The desk was covered in my spread out papers, with pens scattered about the place. Photos of people I love fill my walls, constantly reminding me why I’m here. Before I sleep, I open up my emails and check for any new ones since I’ve been gone. There’s a email from my agent, the subject titled ‘Congratulations’.

Dear Ophelia

I hope you can soak in this massive achievement. We’ve received some incredible news - your book has already received hundreds of pre orders, making you a best-seller before you have even hit the shelves!

It’s not every day we see a pre launch performance like this, so massive congratulations. Celebrate with a glass of prosecco!

Here’s to celebrating many more milestones together!

Kind Regards.

I let out a little squeal and covered my mouth. Did I really do this? Then I remember the brief shout out Nora did for me. I search on YouTube to find it. I watch the video and smile, a bittersweet feeling. Although we didn’t end on the greatest terms, sadly, we are both smashing our careers. Realistically, we wouldn’t have been able to do it together. But our love taught me a lot and I hope it taught Nora some things too. I thank her for taking me out of a dark place, for making me realise I can do whatever I put my mind to. Now I’m here, a writer, which a year ago was an unrealistic dream. I hope that Coco is proud as she looks down at me. I miss her. I miss Nora. But I’ll be okay, always okay.

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EPILOGUE

Nora

*6 months later*

Sitting in my therapist’s office, I observe everything around me like I do every therapy session. The rows of books about psychology were on her shelf, the box of tissues next to my side, and the whiteboard where I’ve written out my emotions many times. My therapist, Emily, walks in sitting down on the chair opposite me. She has a scarf tucked round her neck, and a knitted jumper hugging her torso.

“Hello Nora, how are you doing?” Emily asks. Sometimes I come to these sessions, especially when I feel low, feeling like there’s a tape over my mouth. I can’t speak, I can’t cry for help, all I can do is sit there and grunt. The countless conversation we have that I’m wasting my money to just sit here. I get it, I pay lots of money for these sessions, and although to Emily itmay look like I’m not improving, I am. A month after Ophelia left me stranded in Las Vegas, I finally came to therapy. I was so angry at Ophelia, annoyed she left so abruptly. It hurt more than anything ever has. Some days, I’m okay and I understand why she did it, rationally I know why she did it. But some days I wake up and this cloud hangs over my head, raining down with fury and sadness. I haven’t messaged her since she left, and the guilt eats me up. “Is something bothering you, Nora?” Emily asks, her clipboard sitting on

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