Page 107 of My Spanish Love Affair

Laura has a way of bringing out the best kind of nostalgia, the kind that reminds me of who I was before life became so complicated. She’s a master of storytelling, complete with exaggerated impressions and dramatic hand gestures that have me laughing so hard I almost spill my wine.

“Do you remember,” she says through a mouthful of spring roll, “that time you fell asleep in Mr Green’s lecture and woke up shouting, ‘I didn’t mean to!’?”

I shake my head, visibly cringing at the memory.

“Why do you always bring that up? It was so bad!”

“Wrong. It was iconic,” she laughs, wiping tears from her eyes. “Honestly, the look on his face? I thought he was going to combust on the spot.”

“Well, you weren’t any better,” I counter, pointing a chopstick at her. “You were the one who dared me to eat that massive slice of chocolate cake just before his class in the first place. The sugar crash was entirely your fault.”

“Details, details,” she says with a dismissive wave, reaching for the bottle of wine.

The hours slip by, and for a little while, it’s like nothing has changed. Just two friends sitting on a worn sofa, eating Chinese food and laughing about things that don’t really matter.

It’s comforting. Safe.

But as the evening winds down and I finally head home, the weight of reality starts to creep back in. The streets are quiet, and the cool night air feels sharp against my skin as I walk, my thoughts drifting to Laura’s words.

“You do have to figure out what you want, Liv.”

Her voice echoes in my mind, cutting through the jumble of emotions that I’ve been trying so hard to suppress.

As much as I want to stay in this bubble, hiding from the world, I know that she’s right. I can’t do it forever.

I can’t keep running.

But what do I even want?

By the time I reach my mum’s house, my feet feel heavy, and my heart feels even heavier. I let myself in quietly, the faint creak of the door echoing in the stillness of the house.

My mum’s already gone to bed, but there’s a note waiting for me on the kitchen counter, her familiar handwriting neat and comforting.

There’s some leftover shepherd’s pie in the fridge if you’re hungry. Love you, Mum.

I smile faintly, folding the note and slipping it into my pocket. It’s silly, but I don’t want to throw it away.

I open the fridge and see the foil-covered dish on the middleshelf. Even though I’m not particularly hungry, I am rather drunk, so I grab a fork and take a bite straight from the container. The familiar flavors of home settle in my stomach, but they do little to soothe the restless energy buzzing under my skin.

The house is quiet, save for the faint creaks of the floorboards above me as Mum shifts in her sleep. The warmth of home wraps around me, from the worn tablecloth on the kitchen table to the faint scent of lavender that lingers in the air.

I should feel safe here, comforted by the familiarity of the place I grew up in.

But I don’t.

Instead, there’s an unsettled feeling gnawing at the edges of my mind, refusing to be ignored.

What do I want?

The question echoes over and over, relentless in its simplicity and its weight.

I take the shepherd’s pie back to the counter, covering it neatly before placing it back in the fridge. My hands linger on the door handle for a moment, gripping it tighter than necessary, as if grounding myself physically might stop my mind from spiraling.

I glance at the clock on the microwave. 1:32 a.m. It’s late, and I’m exhausted, but my thoughts won’t let me rest.

As I climb the stairs to my old bedroom, each step feels heavier than the last. The walls are still the same pale yellow they were when I was a teenager, the faded posters of bands I used to love still tacked up beside my mirror.

Even my old books are stacked neatly on the shelves, their spines worn from years of rereading.

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