Somewhere New

The time on my laptop reads 12:11 AM, which means five hours until he wakes up. I watch Milo’s chest rise and fall under the covers beside me, his mouth hanging slightly open in that way I used to tease him for. Back before teasing started to feel like pressing on a bruise. He’s so peaceful beside me. He’ll be so proud of me when he wakes up, and I’ll have to squash it.

The cursor blinks at me like it knows. I’ve been staring at it so long my eyes water. The Submit button won’t work now. If I clicked it, it would only spit back an error.

My phone buzzes on my thigh:

New Upload: Cost of living crisis explained.

As if the internet is reading my mind. As if a ten-minute video could tell me anything I don’t already carry. As if some influencer with a penthouse apartment and affiliate links could understand what it’s like to choose between courage and rent. I swipe it away.

I close the lid of my laptop. The only other light in the room leaks in from under the blind. Next door’s back porch, left on again. The glow pools across the carpet in a thin, honeyed strip, catching on the wardrobe mirror and tinting the air with a warmth that isn’t really there. It lends the room a false luxury, like a hotel you can’t quite afford, furnished with someone else’s good taste.

Careful not to wake Milo, I slip out of bed and pad down the hallway.

In the kitchen, I pour a glass of water and stand holding it like a stage prop. The leaky tap drips into the pile of dishes from dinner, a slow metronome marking the night. If I’d pressed that button, in six weeks I might have been somewhere else entirely. At a desk instead of a till. A nine-to-five instead of split shifts that eat into my weekends. A job that would have used the degree I’m still paying off, not one that leaves me sore, invisible, and scolded by people who treat me like I’m slow on purpose.

And no, it wasn’t perfect. Just a junior copywriter role at a small agency. But it was a foot in the door, a step away from the fluorescent hum and plastic name tags. A real salary. Sick leave. The kind of job you can say out loud at parties without wanting to change the subject.

I had the cover letter written. Milo proofread it. We picked the photo where I looked friendly but competent. The one from his cousin’s wedding, sunlight catching in my hair and Milo’s shoulder still slightly in view. He even ironed my blouse for the interview he was so sure I’d get.

But I couldn’t do it. I looked at the application and all I could see was failure. I couldn’t summon the courage to perform the “pick me, I’m worth it, I promise” dance one more time. I couldn’t stand the thought of some recruiter scrolling through my resume with a smirk, seeing the patchwork retail jobs and the gap year that turned into three. The humiliation of another polite rejection email. Or worse. Silence.

Milo thinks I hate retail because of the pay, the customers, the hours. That’s part of it. But mostly, it’s how the job makes you smaller. How you learn to fold yourself to fit the space you’ve been given. To stop asking. To say “No worries” when it’s definitely a worry. I watch my younger coworkers leave for their bright futures, shoulders squared, eyes fixed ahead. And I’m still here. Maybe I’m not cut out for more. Maybe this is where my story stalls, in a place that was only ever meant to be a layover. And the longer I stay the more it starts to feel like the final stop.

I open the back door. The air smells of wet mulch and rain on concrete. Our tiny yard boxed in by leaning metal fences, the neighbour’s weeds sneaking underneath. Pushing into our space like they know they belong here more than I do. Braver, more certain, more rooted than I’ve ever managed to be. In a few hours, I’ll pin my name badge to my shirt and watch morning light slide through the shopfront as people in better coats pass by with their takeaway coffees. I’ll tell them “Have a good one,” and they’ll say “You too!” without even looking at me.

Milo stirs when I climb back into bed. He mumbles something and wraps an arm around me, pulling me in against his chest. My throat tightens. I press my face into the fabric of his shirt, breathing in the faint scent of laundry powder and the warmth he’s left in the sheets.

“You okay?” he asks, barely awake.

“Mhm,” I lie.

It’s not the kind of lie he’d believe for long. In the morning, he’ll prop himself on one elbow, hair sticking up, eyes still heavy with sleep, and he’ll ask what’s wrong in that quiet way of his. I’ll have to tell him. About the form sitting unsent, the deadline gone, the never-ending fluorescent lights and loyalty card pitches I’ve just signed myself up for. I’ll watch his shoulders sink, the momentary flicker of disappointment in his expression before he tucks it away, smoothing it over with the gentleness he keeps for me. He’ll pull me in and say it’s okay. I’ll let him. And somewhere in my chest something will twist, quiet but sharp. In that silence, I’ll feel the click of the lock on a door I just closed for myself.

I shut my eyes. In the dark, I imagine the version of me who pressed the button. She’s lying here too, but lighter somehow. She’s nervous like me, but it’s the sharp kind of nerves that mean something better is coming. I want to reach across the thin skin of the multiverse and swap places with her. I want to steal whatever made her believe she deserved more. I want to shake her until she hands over whatever it is she has that I’ve been missing.

Out on the street, a car passes, tyres hissing over wet asphalt like they know exactly where they’re going. I imagine the driver is heading somewhere new. Maybe a warm golden porch light is left on somewhere, waiting just for them.

I can’t remember the last time I was headed anywhere at all.