Page 5 of Ghost Of You

Her hand reaches up to touch my cheek, her thumb smudging across it. I’m lost in the tenderness of her touch, savouring the moment.

Before I can respond, a redhead and a blonde appear abruptly.

“Laelia!” the blonde exclaims.

Laelia pulls her hand away reluctantly and looks at the newcomers. “Ada,” she says, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“We’ve been searching everywhere for you,” Ada says, her eyes flicking towards me. “But I can see what’s distracted you.” Shescans me with a knowing smile. “Got any hot friends?” she asks, making us all laugh.

“Forget that! We need to go! Jasmine’s waiting for us at Topic,” the redhead says, causing everyone to turn their attention to her.

While Laelia’s friends are undeniably attractive, they pale in comparison to Laelia, who exists in a league of her own. The redhead reaches forwards and grabs Laelia’s hand, pulling her up. “Unlock your phone and give it to me,” Laelia insists.

I quickly comply, unlocking my phone and handing it over. She types rapidly before returning it to me just as the redhead starts to pull her away.

“Text me!” she calls out, flashing me the most perfect smile I’ve ever seen before she disappears into the crowd.

Gazing down at my phone, I see her number saved under her name with a heart next to it. I’m struck by the realization that Laelia was, and still is, the best thing that ever happened to me. No one has ever come close to her. How on earth did I let her go?

Chapter three

Present: 3rd June 2023

Feeling battered, bruised, and extraordinarily fortunate, I stroll down the main street in town, a cigarette hanging loosely between my lips. The sharp scent of tobacco mingles with the cool morning air, a familiar comfort in the chaos. As I pull the cigarette away and exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the sky, a small, almost defiant smile tugs at my lips.

It’s been a month since the accident—a collision that could have ended so much worse. We walked away with just a few cuts and bruises, but we had to say goodbye to our beloved blood-orange Vauxhall Corsa. That car wasn’t just a vehicle; it was a piece of our history. It had carried us through countless road trips, and adventures that wove our lives together in ways only we understood. It was more than just a car; it was our companion, our refuge on wheels, and would have been the perfect family car when our little one arrives in a few months. But now, it’s gone, reduced to twisted metal and shattered glass, just another casualty of life’s unpredictability.

For the past month, I’ve followed my doctor’s orders and rested, letting my body heal while trying to shake off the lingering trauma. But the restlessness has been gnawing at me. Today, I decided to return to work, even though it’s a bit earlier than recommended. I’ve never been one to sit still for too long. I’m not built for inactivity, and while the time at home with Laelia has been precious, there’s a part of me that craves the rhythm of work and the sense of purpose it brings. Being self-employed means no sick pay and no safety net. If I don’t work, we don’t earn. It’s as simple as that.

Feeling the warmth of the morning sun on my face as I stroll down the bustling street, I decide to pause outside my all-time favourite bakery, flicking away the last remnants of my cigarette. The small gesture feels like shedding the last bit of morning haze, a prelude to what I know will be a comforting ritual. As I push open the door, the familiar jingle of the bell above welcomes me, followed by the irresistible aroma of freshly baked goods. Lola's Bakery has become an essential part of my daily routine, a ritual that anchors my mornings. Without my usual latte and either a chocolate-drizzled doughnut or one of Lola's buttery croissants, the day feels incomplete—almost like I'm tempting fate to deal me a bad hand.

The moment I step inside, I'm greeted by a riot of colour behind the glass counter, where an array of beautifully decorated doughnuts is on full display. The variety is almost overwhelming—glazed, sugared, generously drizzled in rich chocolate, and some filled with delicious, homemade jam that oozes out with the first bite. My personal favourite is the doughnut drenched in chocolate, the perfect blend of sweetness and decadence, while Laelia, ever the traditionalist, swears by the original glazed. She teases me for my choice, calling me "basic," but I know she secretly loves it when I bring home an extra chocolate-drizzled one for her to "sample."

Standing behind the counter, as always, is Lola herself, a vibrant presence in the bakery. At five-foot-three, with a plump, cheerful demeanour and a welcoming smile, she's the heart and soul of this place. Her grey hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and her bright eyes sparkle with the satisfaction of someone who knows they're doing exactly what they were meant to do. Behind her, the pastel pink wall is lined with neatly written boards, each listing the day's offerings in a carefully curated script. There isn't a baked good in existence that Lola can't master—doughnuts, muffins, cakes, pastries, pies, and an assortment of freshly baked bread that makes it impossible to leave with just one item.

Today, like most days, I'm tempted to indulge in everything. The sight of the perfectly golden croissants, with their flaky layers that practically beg to be torn apart, and the rich, chocolate-glazed doughnuts, makes my mouth water. I know I should probably practice some restraint, but in Lola’s Bakery, resisting temptation feels like an impossible feat. The cosy atmosphere, filled with the hum of quiet conversations and the gentle clatter of cups and plates, makes this little corner of the world feel like a sanctuary—a place where, for a few moments, everything is right.

As I step up to the counter and catch Lola's eye, she greets me with a bright smile. Just as I'm about to place my order, she raises her hand, silencing me with a playful look.

"Let me guess—a large latte and either a croissant or a chocolate-drizzled doughnut?" she asks, her eyes twinkling.

I chuckle, shaking my head in amusement. "Am I really that predictable?"

She shrugs, the corners of her mouth lifting into a knowing grin. "Maybe just a little."

Without missing a beat, she begins to make my latte. Although other staff members could easily prepare my order, Lola always insists on doing it herself. I like to think it’s her way of sayingthanks for helping her decorate the place. She might have thought it was a big task with the only brief being "pink and sparkly," but for me, it was a breeze. Now, this bakery is a vision in pink, a whimsical dream of glitter and warmth. The pastel pink walls are soft and inviting, the dark pink counters add a rich contrast, and the glittery pink and white tables practically beg you to sit down and indulge.

As she works on my order, I take a moment to soak in the atmosphere around me. The bakery is bustling with life, as usual. Customers fill nearly every seat, sipping on steaming mugs of coffee or tea, while others hover near the glass displays, eyeing the array of baked goods with hungry anticipation. A couple of kids press their noses against the glass, their eyes wide with wonder as they try to decide between the sugar-dusted pastries or the chocolate-filled eclairs.

In the back, I catch a glimpse of the bakers hard at work, their hands moving in a blur as they flip dough, knead bread, and pipe frosting onto freshly baked cakes. The air is thick with the comforting scents of melting butter, warm ginger, and sweet vanilla. It's the kind of smell that wraps around you like a cosy blanket, making you feel at home no matter where you are.

As I scan the room, my stomach growls in agreement. There's no denying the magic of Lola's bakery. The treats here don't just smell like heaven; they taste like it too. Each bite is a little piece of bliss—flaky, buttery croissants that melt in your mouth, rich, decadent doughnuts that leave a trace of chocolate on your lips, and bread so fresh you can still feel the warmth of the oven in each slice.

I glance back at Lola just as she finishes up my latte, her smile as radiant as ever. It’s moments like this, in places like this, that remind me of the simple joys in life. The kind that’s worth savouring, one delicious bite at a time.

Turning back to Lola, I see her standing there, holding my coffee on the counter with a drizzled chocolate doughnut in a bag, waiting for me to devour it the moment I walk out the door. Her usual warm smile is gone, replaced by an expression that seems far away, as if she’s lost in thoughts she doesn’t want to share. I force a smile, my mouth already watering for the chocolate goodness, and I reach for my wallet from my back pocket. But before I can pull it out, she shakes her head, her smile fading completely.

“It’s on me,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse, strained, like she’s barely holding something back.

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