Five Years Ago
Alice woke to her mum’s voice slicing through the house.
“Alice! Up!”
It came from across the landing, sharp and rushed, already tired. The kind of voice that didn’t wait for answers.
Alice groaned and rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. Her room was warm, heavy with sleep and last night’s body spray. She didn’t want to move. Her limbs felt loose and stubborn, like they belonged to someone else.
“Alice Harper!.”
That got her.
She cracked one eye open.
Her room was a mess — not chaotic, just hers. Clothes draped over the back of her desk chair. A denim skirt hanging off the wardrobe handle. Posters layered over each other on the wall: bands she’d grown out of, a magazine pull-out she still liked, a quote she’d written herself in marker and never bothered to take down. Makeup lay scattered across her vanity — brushes unwashed, mascara uncapped, lip gloss rolling near the edge.
The mirror caught a sliver of pale morning light and threw it across the floor.
“Alice, I mean it!“Mom shouted. “You’re going to miss the bus!”
“I’m up,” Alice lied, voice thick.
The door opened anyway.
Mom leaned in, already dressed for work, hair pulled back tight, phone pressed between shoulder and ear. She took in the room in one long look, lips thinning.
“This room,” she muttered, hanging up, “is an absolute state.”
“It’s called personality,” Alice said, pushing herself upright.
“It’s called a dumping ground.”
“Same thing.”
Mom rubbed her forehead. There was a crease there that hadn’t always been. “Bus is in twenty minutes.”
“Seventeen,” Alice said automatically. “He’s early on Thursdays.”
Mom paused, then nodded once. Not annoyed. Just tired.
Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, she said,
“You need to walk Luke home after school today.”
There it was.
Alice felt it land in her chest — that familiar mix of irritation and something heavier she never quite named.
“Mum,” she said, dragging a hand down her face, “Skye knows the way home.”
“I didn’t say he didn’t.”
“You don’t have to,” Alice snapped. “You treat her like she’s made of glass.”
Mom stiffened. “I treat him like he needs to be safe.”
Alice looked away before she said something worse.
“Please,” Mom added, softer now. “I’m working late. I don’t want him walking alone.”
That did it. The quiet guilt, sharp and unwelcome.
“Fine,” Alice muttered.
Mom nodded, relief flickering too quickly across her face. “Good. Breakfast’s downstairs. And wake—”
She stopped.
Just a fraction of a second.
“...Wake Luke,” she finished, voice firm, practiced.
She didn’t look back to see if Alice noticed.
Alice noticed — and let it go.
Correcting Mum never changed anything. It just made the day worse.
The door shut.
The house settled around Alice again, but the quiet felt thicker than usual — like something unfinished was waiting in it.
She swung her legs out of bed and crossed to her vanity. The mirror split her reflection in smudged lines. She brushed her hair too fast, wincing when she caught a knot.
Her eyes drifted to the Polaroid tucked into the corner of the mirror.
Her and Skye, last summer. Skye half-smiling, sleeves pulled over her hands. Alice mid-laugh, trying too hard to look cool.
“I’ll walk her home,” Alice said under her breath. “Promise.”
It didn’t feel like one.
She grabbed a hair tie, looped it around her wrist, and stepped into the hallway. The floorboards creaked — the same familiar groan they always made.
Toast burned somewhere downstairs.
Alice stopped outside the door with the peeling astronaut sticker.
Skye’s door.
She lifted her hand to knock — then paused.
There was movement inside. A drawer pulled too hard. Something knocked over. A soft, frustrated noise.
Alice sighed and knocked once, already pushing the door open.
She stopped.
Skye sat cross-legged at her desk in the spill of morning light. Dust drifted lazily through the air, turning the space soft and unreal. Her hair stuck up at odd angles from sleep.
Her desk was neat in the way only Skye’s ever was:
Notebooks stacked by colour.
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Pens lined carefully.
A jar of folded paper stars.
Stickers peeled halfway, waiting.
And Skye was holding a makeup brush.
Alice’s blush palette lay open in front of her — the good one. Pink smudged Skye’s cheeks unevenly. Lip gloss clung too thick at the corners of her mouth. Mascara clumped her lashes together.
And she was wearing Alice’s shirt.
A floral one. Light fabric. Knotted at the waist.
Alice’s stomach twisted.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Skye jumped. The brush clattered across the desk and hit the floor.
“A-Alice—I didn’t hear you—”
“What are you doing?” Alice said, stepping inside despite herself. “Why are you wearing my clothes?”
Skye’s shoulders folded inward. Her sleeves slid down over her hands.
“I just wanted to try it,” she said quietly. “I thought it looked nice.”
Alice’s heart kicked hard — fear first, then embarrassment, then anger trying to cover both.
“Skye,” she hissed, lowering her voice without meaning to, “you can’t go to school like that.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Skye said quickly. “I just—”
“Kids will tear you apart,” Alice snapped. “You know that.”
Skye blinked. “I said I’m sorry.”
Alice swallowed. “Just— take it off. It’s mine.”
Skye nodded, already turning back to the mirror. She reached for a wipe, hands shaking.
“I wrote something,” she said suddenly. Hope crept into her voice despite everything. “Last night. Can I read it to you? It’s really short.”
There it was.
The look.
The way Skye asked like Alice’s attention mattered more than air.
Alice felt something pull tight in her chest — and yanked away from it.
“No,” she said too fast. “Not now.”
Skye’s face fell.
“I don’t have time for your stories right now, Skye,” Alice added, sharper than she meant. “Just get dressed.”
The word Skye still landed — but the tone did the damage.
Skye’s eyes glossed over. She wiped at her cheek, smearing makeup.
Before the guilt could surface properly, another voice cut in.
“What’s going on?”
Dad stood in the doorway, shirt half-tucked, tie crooked, already late. He smelled like coffee and deodorant and impatience.
“I need to leave,” he said. “Can you keep it down?”
“She—” Alice started.
“I don’t care who started it,” he said. “Both of you. Get ready.”
Skye wiped her face harder.
Dad turned away without looking long enough to notice.
The door shut.
Alice stood there, the silence pressing in again.
Skye scrubbed the last of the makeup away, shoulders small and rigid.
Alice backed into the hallway.
The house felt... paused.
Not quiet.
Not loud.
Just waiting.
And no one noticed.
By the time Alice reached the bottom of the stairs, the kettle was already screaming.
The kitchen smelled like toast that had gone too far — not quite smoke, but close enough that no one wanted to admit it. The space felt cramped the way it always did in the mornings, every surface half-claimed: cereal boxes left open, envelopes from the post spread near the sink, the wine bottle her mum had promised she’d pour out sitting untouched by the window.
Mom stood at the counter in her dressing gown, hair pulled back tight, tapping the toaster with the impatience of someone already running late. She muttered under her breath, not at anyone in particular.
Dad sat at the table, phone in one hand, spoon scraping against his bowl in a steady, irritating rhythm.
Alice dropped into her chair and let her bag hit the floor.
“You took your time,” Mom said, not looking at her.
“I was getting ready. And I woke Skye,” Alice said. The words came out quieter than she meant them to.
“You could’ve been quicker.”
Before Alice could answer, movement caught her eye.
Skye hovered in the doorway.
She stood just inside the kitchen, like she wasn’t sure she was meant to be there. Her hair was still damp from a rushed shower, collar of her uniform crooked, sleeves pulled over her hands again. The pink she’d scrubbed off her cheeks lingered faintly, like a memory she couldn’t quite erase.
No one spoke at first.
That happened sometimes — everyone waiting, not sure how to start without choosing the wrong thing.
“There’s cereal,” Dad said finally, eyes still on his phone. “Toast. Whatever’s fastest. We’re running late.”
Mom glanced over her shoulder and frowned. “Luke, your socks are wet. Don’t track water through the kitchen.”
Skye looked down at her feet. The socks were barely damp. She nodded anyway.
“Sorry.”
Alice felt the familiar knot twist in her stomach.
Skye moved toward her usual chair, then stopped. A stack of newspapers blocked it, folded unevenly like they’d been dropped there and forgotten.
She waited.
Dad noticed and stood abruptly, gathering the papers with one arm. He set them on the washing machine without looking at her, then sat back down, already scrolling again.
Skye slipped into the chair, hands tight around the cereal box. She didn’t pour it yet.
Mom dumped the burnt toast onto a plate and slid it across the counter harder than necessary.
“Alice,” she said, “remember you’re walking Luke home today.”
Alice shoved a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. It tasted like cardboard.
“Why? She knows the way.”
Mom didn’t turn. “Because I said so.”
“She’s not five.”
“He’s twelve.”
“And I was fine at twelve.”
Mom look cut sharp. “Don’t make this harder. Not this morning.”
Skye’s hands tightened around her bowl. “I don’t mind walking alone.”
“Yes,” Mom said instantly, “you do.”
“I don’t,” Skye said, softer.
“I said you do.”
Skye nodded — the safest answer — and reached for the milk.
“Careful,” Mom said automatically.
Skye froze mid-pour even though nothing was spilling.
Alice watched it happen, jaw tight. She hated how predictable it all was. Hated how ordinary.
“Dad,” she tried. “Seriously. Do I have to?”
Dad looked up at last. His eyes were tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
“Alice,” he said quietly, “just today. Please.”
Not angry.
Just worn down.
“Fine,” Alice muttered.
Skye picked at her cereal without eating. Her gaze flicked between her parents, then to Alice.
She took a breath. Small. Careful.
“Um... I wanted to ask something.”
Mom stiffened.
Skye’s voice wobbled. “Could you maybe call me—”
“No,” Mom said. Not loud. Just final.
Skye’s mouth closed. She stared down into her bowl again.
Dad stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’m warming up the car,” he said. “Be ready in five.”
Cold Suffolk air swept in when he opened the door, damp and fog-heavy, before it shut again.
Mom grabbed her mug and left soon after, muttering about appointments and the toaster.
The kitchen fell quiet.
Skye nudged her cereal once more, then whispered, “Alice... I didn’t mean to upset you. About earlier.”
Alice swallowed.
She wanted to say I know.
She wanted to say It’s not your fault.
She wanted to say I’m scared too.
Instead she stood and grabbed her bag.
“Just hurry up,” she said. “We’re gonna miss the bus.”
Skye nodded.
Outside, an engine roared briefly somewhere down the road — too fast, too loud — and then it was gone.
Neither of them reacted.
?
The air outside still held the night’s chill, mist curling low along Jockeys Lane and clinging to the hedges. Streetlamps clicked off one by one behind them as they walked.
Alice pulled her jacket tighter. Skye followed half a step back, hugging her bag to her chest.
“Come on,” Alice said. “Bus won’t wait.”
They crossed onto Finborough Road, the hum of early traffic growing louder. A dog barked behind a gate. Someone scraped ice off a windscreen further down. The day looked ordinary — stubbornly so.
Skye’s footsteps were uneven behind her.
“What are you doing?” Alice snapped when she realised Skye had fallen back.
Skye startled. “Sorry. I was just—”
“Stop drifting. We’re late.”
Skye hurried to match her pace, sleeve brushing Alice’s arm. Alice edged away without thinking.
They passed the small bridge over the Rattlesden, railings slick with condensation. Skye dragged a fingertip along the metal, collecting water.
“You’ll freeze,” Alice said.
Skye wiped her hand on her hoodie. “Didn’t mean to.”
“You never mean to,” Alice said — and regretted it as soon as the words landed.
Skye didn’t reply.
The closer they got to the shops, the busier it became. Exhaust hung low over Ipswich Road. Warm bread drifted from the bakery. Teenagers gathered in loose clusters near the stops, loud and half-awake.
Alice spotted Amelia and Jolie near the bench.
Relief loosened something in her chest.
She sped up.
“Alice?” Skye asked quietly.
“What.”
Skye hesitated. “Could I maybe walk home by myself today? I don’t mind.”
Alice stopped short.
There it was.
An opening.
She wanted to say yes. She’d already planned not to walk Skye home — her boyfriend had texted last night, and she hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
But Skye asking made it feel different.
“No,” Alice said. “Mum said no.”
“I know,” Skye said. “I just thought maybe... you’d let me.”
“You can’t be on your own,” Alice snapped. “You’ll get lost.”
“I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“Well, Mum thinks you are.”
Skye flinched, then tucked it away.
They reached the bus stop. Diesel fumes drifted as two buses idled, engines vibrating through the pavement. The chatter around them was loud, scattered.
Skye reached for Alice’s sleeve — light, hesitant.
“Alic—”
“Don’t,” Alice said under her breath. “Not here.”
Skye let go immediately.
“Go wait over there,” Alice added, nodding toward the edge of the crowd. “I need to talk to my friends.”
Skye nodded and stepped away, folding into herself as she moved toward the quieter patch of pavement.
The bus doors hissed open.
A sharp, mechanical sound that cut through the morning.
Alice turned toward her friends, forcing a smile.
Behind her, Skye stood alone, bag hugged tight, sleeves pulled down.
And none of them noticed the moment stretching — thin and fragile — before it slipped away for good.
