Page 105 of A Collision of Stars

In moments of quiet, when there’s nothing to keep me occupied, images blast across my brain in high definition. An empty chair at the dinner table. Family-sized bags of spicy Doritos left in the cupboard because he’s the only one who ever eats them. A Christmas stocking that’ll never be filled. Songs I’ll never play again because I’ll have no one to sing them with. Our special language going extinct, every connection between us disappearing in a puff of smoke. No matter how hard I try to keep them at bay, it’s like they survive on my fear, consuming it until it consumes me.

And so, I drag myself out of bed and find the energy to make myself look presentable, covering any evidence of my restless night with makeup. The last thing I need is for customers to ask if I’m okay. Go through the motions and keep it together. This is what’s expected of me. I won’t show the fear sweeping through me,or the guilt snaking over my shoulders. Guilt for being okay, guilt for not being okay, guilt for even thinking about my own fear when I see it so clearly in Max’s eyes. When Josie comes back, I’ll tell her, but I won’t taint her time with her parents with this news. For now, I’ll handle it alone.

Because no one else needs to know about the fog seeping under doorways, blocking up any of the fissures that had just started to let the light in. I can’t help but notice that the moment I thought I was safe, the scales tipped back exactly the way I’d hoped they wouldn’t.

It doesn’t matter that this time feels different. Doesn’t matter that we never have to experience the gut-wrenching panic for the first time again. Doesn’t matter that this time, I wasn’t alone in my uni bedroom when I found out, sitting on a rickety desk chair as I feverishly Googled everything I could and regretted it, repeating that cycle again and again until I knew every piece of literature, every variable, every study, every statistic off by heart. Until I realised my parents’ fears had frozen them in place and my family was breaking and they needed me home. Going to Tesco, making sure everyone ate, filling up the car with petrol. I was there to keep things moving, reliably stoic and levelheaded.

And I was glad I went home in the end, anyway, because I was there when things got better, and I was there when it all went terribly, impossibly wrong.

No, this time is a dull ache, an opening of old wounds that were poorly stitched together in the first place, and a reminder there’s too much to lose.

The mundanity of my routine when I step into City Roast comforts me. Lights, till, coffee machine, dishwasher, stock. I’ve spent years perfecting this, relying on predictability to keep myself protected. So, by the time the first customer walks through the door, everything is as it should be. I am exactly where I should be. Ifunction for the rest of the morning on autopilot, spouting small talk where needed, cleaning surfaces that aren’t dirty, and making drinks exactly how the regulars like them.

‘Did you have a good weekend?’ they ask.

‘It was pretty uneventful,’ I reply.

They don’t know me well enough to detect the lie, and I’m glad.

When Dylan arrives fifteen minutes early, she gets on with her work, reliable and consistent and somehow detecting my need for space by choosing every task far away from me. Eventually, when we’re both behind the counter, I turn to her, ready to at least pretend my brain isn’t in tatters.

‘I’m sorry we didn’t get to hang out much on Saturday. Did you have fun?’ We form a mini assembly line; me passing her clean mugs from the dishwasher while she neatly stacks them on the coffee machine.

‘Yeah. I don’t go to parties often, especially without my boyfriend, so it was nice to get out of the house. I liked your friends.’ She grins. ‘Is Finn in? I thought he’d be here by now. He’s usually glued to your side.’

I’m grateful I have a bit longer before I see him. I know what I need to do when I see him this evening, and I don’t particularly want to do it. We need to stamp this out. Keep it strictly platonic until he leaves. I’m not ignorant enough to think I could cut him out completely; he practically lives at the shop. And I’m selfish too; selfish enough to keep him close, to make the most of the way he makes me feel a little brighter, a little lighter.

But whatever thisthingwas, it can’t happen. I don’t have the brain capacity right now for anything other than putting one foot in front of the other and keeping this simple. A quiet, mean part of my brain tells me that maybe if I hadn’t been sodistracted with him, I would’ve paid more attention to Max and pushed him to get checked out sooner.

‘Uh, no, he’s seeing family today.’ I swallow. ‘I assume he’ll be in tomorrow.’

‘I see you’re both still in the weekend spirit,’ Carl’s grating voice hits my eardrums. ‘But come on, back to work now. Nadia is back in today, so I want this place to be perfect.’

Dylan’s eyes widen and she scurries away, still afraid of his authority in a way that I’m not.

I pull out a folder from below the till. For months now, I’ve been keeping track of our deliveries, noting down when each tin of coffee beans or box of crisps goes out of date so we’ll have a record of everything and can push sales on soon-to-expire items. Not that Carl knows I do this. I set up this system less for the purposes of saving the shop money and more for the fact this job makes me feel braindead and the task keeps my mind occupied. But we’re killing two birds with one stone.

The irony is not lost on me that I try to be frugal with the shop’s expenses here but continue to stuff my face with stolen KitKats and give away free drinks to Finn.

‘What’s this?’ Carl asks, disconcertingly close as I make a latte. He watches my every move with uncharacteristic attention. He never stays behind the counter—presumably for fear of being dragged into doing actual customer-facing work—and his presence distracts me enough that I don’t immediately notice who enters the shop behind Nadia. It’s only when I hear the soft laugh he shares with her that I realise who it is.

Carl grabs the folder and greets his guest, calling out an order over his shoulder as he leads Nadia to his table.

‘Morning, Ava Monroe,’ Finn says, his voice and movements slow, like he’s approaching a wild animal.

‘Finn,’ I say curtly. I thoughtI’d have more time to psych myself up to talk to him. I drop my eyes, worried about what he might see on my face. And yet, despite everything, it’s a little easier to breathe having him nearby.

He waits for me to finish making Nadia and Carl’s drinks and Dylan takes them over to them on my behalf, probably detecting my need to talk to Finn alone. I continue to avoid eye contact to ask, ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were seeing your dad.’

He takes his glasses off to clean them, and I take the opportunity to look at him properly. He’s less rumpled than I’m used to; shirt ironed, hair almost too neat, stubble as short as I’ve ever seen it. He looks younger than usual. My heart squeezes at the sight, at the effort he’s made.

‘He’s had to push it back, I’m meeting him for lunch in a bit.’ He looks through his glasses to check for smears and replaces them on his nose. ‘But we need to talk. There’s something I wan— are you okay?’

His affable tone switches instantly, the question shooting out of him like a bullet. Concerned eyes roam my face and I know he’s noticed everything I’ve tried to cover with makeup and a fake smile.

‘I’m fine.’ I really need to come up with a word that doesn’t sound like a lie. I hunt for a way to distract him. ‘We can’t have this conversation while I’m at work.’

This conversationbeing that we need to address what happened on the weekend.

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