That feeling in my stomach.
I’m late. And it’s strange—because I’d been watching the time since midday. My meeting was set for 6:15 p.m. I remember glancing at my watch: 12:37… then 14:45… then 15:59, which was when I was supposed to leave work. That would’ve given me just enough time—to shower, spend a moment with my cat, eat, do my makeup, pick a dress… anything to avoid showing up “ugly.”
The acne on my cheeks is flaring again. And I’ve got an ulcer on the inside of my mouth—left side, under the lip. It stings every time I talk or smile.
Now it’s 17:15. I’m already fifteen minutes late.
I bolted out the door, makeup undone, my bra straps flashing under my dress because I don’t own a strapless bra. Why? Because I can’t afford one right now. Because I can’t afford to wear the clothes I want the way they’re meant to be worn. Because even small choices feel like luxuries.
But I’m clean. I’m grateful I showered. That’s something. Still, the lateness is eating at me.
I texted her—the person I’m meant to meet—and now I don’t know if the tube delays are working in my favor or against me. She’s already at Marble Arch. I’m still three miles away. Stuck. Rerouting. The heat is clinging to everything. London heat, which feels like a damp, itchy silence crawling down your back.
Stupid public transport. Stupid heat.
Stupid way I always end up rushing even when I plan.
And yes—I know I could’ve left work early. But I wanted to finish my task. (God, I hate that word. “Task.” Even “project” doesn’t feel right. It’s too big for what it was. English is both beautifully precise and completely useless sometimes.)
Now the feeling is rising. Not just in my stomach—up through my throat. A tension. Pressure. Like I’m about to cry, or scream, or dissolve.
And then—
A notification.
From him.
Just seeing his name on my screen was enough. Grief, sharp and immediate, took over my body like cold air in warm lungs. It triggered the version of me I thought I had tucked away. The version of us I thought I had buried gently.
But this is who he is. This is the version of him that’s always been there. Maybe he was just better at hiding it. Or maybe I was too stupid—no, too hopeful—to notice the red flags. Maybe I loved who he was in the beginning so much that I ignored the version unfolding before me over five years.
Was he always like this, waiting to be comfortable enough to let it show? Or was I too busy believing in him to notice the things he never said but always showed?
I don’t know.
I don’t know which parts I missed and which parts I chose not to see. But one thing is certain—this pressure in my throat? It’s real. It’s here. It’s telling me something I don’t have words for yet.