They were seventeen, sunburned and tipsy on lukewarm cider, sprawled in long grass above Selsley Common. Below them, rooftops caught the last gold light. It smelled of warm earth and crushed cow parsley.
Lina flicked a stolen lighter under a twig. “We can’t stay here forever.”
Nell turned, cheek grass-streaked. “So where would you go?”
“Everywhere. Lisbon. Tokyo. Norway. Just us. No men. No phones. Just rucksacks and the road.”
Nell smiled, already knowing Lina would be the first to leave.
“When?”
“Twenty-eight.”
They marked the pact with teenage certainty, assuming life would wait politely.
It didn’t.
Ten years passed in small compromises: commutes, missed calls, calendar clashes. They drifted like trains on diverging tracks. Not derailed. Just elsewhere. Their friendship frayed to memes and rare London catch-ups, fitted between Lina’s nursery runs and Nell’s shifts at the café.
Until one Tuesday at dusk, Nell stood outside Lina’s Willesden Green flat, soaked and wide-eyed, a rucksack over one shoulder.
“I kept the pact,” she said.
Rain dripped from Lina’s oversized waterproof onto the frayed welcome mat.
“You’re not serious,” Lina said.
Nell pulled out a paper. “We’re not going abroad. Not yet.”
A hand-drawn itinerary: Stroud. Walks. Pottery. Pub dinner.
“I needed something to look forward to,” Nell said quietly. “Between the good days. The not-good ones. With Mum.”
Lina hesitated. “I have work. Sam’s parents’ pearl anniversary.”
Nell held her gaze. “This is the pact. Footnoted. The road home.”
Lina looked down. Then back up. “Stroud better have decent wine.”
Nell smiled. “It has hedgerows. And me.”
They packed quickly, part chaos, part muscle memory. Nell gripped the wheel like it might bolt. Lina double-checked snacks like they were crossing tundra.
“Rules,” Nell said. “No therapy podcasts. No quoting Bake Off contestants.”
“What about the one who cried over puff pastry?”
“Especially not them.”
By Reading, Enya played.
Lina groaned. “This is musical despair.”
Near Minchinhampton, signal vanished. A crooked sign read Toadsmoor.
“That sounds cursed,” Lina muttered.
“We go toward it.”
That night, Nell cooked like a woman possessed. Garlic flew. Onions hissed.
“This soup smells like war prep,” Lina said.
“It’s wild garlic,” Nell replied. “My mum’s recipe.”
Lina sipped wine. “She still—?”
“Most days. But soup’s easier than memories.”
Steam fogged the windows. Between silence and spoons, something opened, not solved, just shared.
Later, curled in an armchair, Lina whispered, “Remember how I dressed? Silver boots. Glitter like I was trying to be discovered.”
“Now it’s blouses and tantrum-safe dinners.”
“Mum still asks if I’m nine,” Nell said. “Some days, I say yes.”
They sat quietly.
“I miss her,” Nell added, “even while she’s still here.”
Lina nodded, eyes damp. “I know.”
The next day, they walked through late-summer fields. The air smelled green. A brook wound through the trees.
“I used to love cold water,” Lina said, stepping in. “It reminded me I was still in it.”
Nell followed. “Doesn’t have to be deep.”
They stood quietly, waist-deep, memories tugging at their sleeves.
“It feels bigger than before,” Lina said.
“You grew,” Nell answered. “The map redrew.”
That evening, they went out. Not to fix anything. Just to be somewhere else.
The old chippy was gone, replaced by Conscious Pubbing: two sardines on rye, eco-smug decor, no jukebox.
Lina sighed. “I miss the jukebox.”
Nell grinned. “Remember that guy who screamed ‘Call Me’ on repeat?”
Lina laughed and sang it, arms raised.
They ate quickly, dodging the server’s pitying smiles and laminated menus.
“This place feels allergic to joy,” Nell muttered.
They escaped to Billy’s Bar. A man named Mike, a circus artist from Bristol, sang a dirge. Someone slow-danced with a coat rack.
“Where’s the 2000s joy?” Lina groaned.
“Gone. It’s a pilates studio now,” Nell said.
They took the Stagecoach 67 home. Lina mourned sticky floors and sambuca. Nell mimed yoga stretches.
Outside, the town blurred under streetlamps. They stepped off the bus into a hush.
At home, Nell didn’t speak. She kicked off her boots and folded into bed like she’d been rehearsing it.
Sunlight crashed through the window. Nell blinked, disoriented. Her limbs felt older than they should. Outside, boys kicked a ball too loudly for morning.
The room was quiet, not peaceful, just empty.
The phone on her desk was dark.
She thought about calling. About hearing her mum’s voice. But feared it would sound too soft. Or too normal.
Grief had settled like damp: slow, invasive, always there. In the coats. In the cupboard. In the places memory left behind.
She remembered Year Five. A friend who stopped smiling. Birthday parties with melted candles. Jokes that didn’t land.
Some sadness is loud. Some becomes the air.
She moved to the mirror. Hair flat. Eyes rimmed red. Her outline looked faded, like even she wanted to vanish.
She picked up her phone. It felt too heavy. Her thumb hovered.
Then withdrew.
Not yet.
Maybe after coffee.
Maybe after pretending to feel okay, just for an hour.
Susannah Atkinson is a writer and mental health counsellor based in Stroud, UK. She writes flash fiction and short stories exploring relationships, memory, grief, and the glimmer of human connection.
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