Effie Wynters and Lotte Vrieze might have just met their final match.
✩ rankings:
#26 in neurodivergent [30/09/24]
#65 in adhd [30/09/24]
#72 in feminism [23/11/24]
#88 in musical theatre [11/11/24]
#128 in nonbinary [30/09/24]
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If there was ever anything I could hate about Brittany, it'd be her effortless ability to look beautiful, even under the most ridiculous circumstances. Twelve hours, the same woman with a face full of glowy makeup, sharp winged liner, and blown out hair was laying on the bathroom floor, preparing to throw up. Okay, she's unable to stomach anything other than strong cups of tea and small mouthfuls of dry toast, but why is it the rest of us who look worse for wear?
Breakfast passes with minimal conversation from anybody, the reality of having to return to adulthood looming. I'm lost in emails, my third cup of coffee serving as the perfect concentration tool, and it's only when my phone buzzes beside me on the table that I snap out of my hyperfocus and realise that over an hour has passed. I tap on the banner that appears at the top of my screen, leading me to the unread message.
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I swallow my mouthful of coffee on top of the stubborn lump that has risen in my throat and stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the worn, wooden flooring. Three pairs of eyes watch me expectedly, waiting for me to say something but I don't. I can't.
Brittany is hot on my heels and chases after me, onto the porch. She joins me just as the lit cigarette meets my dry lips. "I thought you quit smoking. We were going to do it together," she frowns, watching me drag and exhale. "You promised."
"Guess I'm a pretty shit friend," I pull the cigarette from my mouth, holding it between my index and middle finger. "Want one?"
She shakes her head at the open packet in my hand. "You're not a shit friend, Lotte."
That's questionable. We all know that when this trip ends and we return to the grind of everyday life—I'm back teaching seventy-eight small children, Brittany returns to her job as personal shopper at Harrods, Ethan is on and off stage, and Cillian settles on reworking his second theatre script—this closeness will diminish. It'll diminish because there is a flaw in my code; because I forget that thinking of someone and hoping they're doing well isn't the same as reaching out. My tendency to forget to check in isn't intentional but damn well reads that way.
