Chapter 3 One Step at a Time

Fridays are the only days I leave the house now.

At first, the idea of going into the office again made my stomach twist. But the company only asked for one day a week. Just Fridays. One meeting. No forced small talk, no lingering after. A soft re-entry into normal life - whatever that means anymore.

It's always the same tram, the same time. 9:07. I sit by the window, earbuds in with no music playing, just to avoid interaction. The ride is short, ten minutes, maybe eleven if the tracks are slow. The buildings blur past in a soft rhythm, and I count them sometimes. Not out loud. Just in my head. Fourteen buildings from my stop to the publisher's office. I like the number. Feels clean.

The building itself is tucked between a florist and a café with the best almond croissants I've ever tasted. I only tried them once, but the scent leaks into the hallway every time I pass. The smell alone is enough to make me pause sometimes. I always keep walking.

Inside, the office is smaller than I imagined when I applied. Bare walls. Rows of shelves stacked with manuscripts. Quiet desks. It reminds me of a library that gave up halfway through becoming modern.

Nobody really talks much. Which is perfect.

The first week, I barely made eye contact with anyone. The second week, someone nodded at me and I panicked because I wasn't sure if I was supposed to nod back or smile. I think I grimaced. But by the third week, I started recognizing faces. A woman with long braids who always has a mug of tea in hand - I think her name's Kemi. A guy with round glasses and a worn-out backpack who fidgets with his pen during every meeting - Lars, I'm sure.

They never pry. No one asks why I transferred to this branch. Or what I used to do. Or why I keep to myself.

We sit through the meeting, discuss edits, assign tasks, then leave. Sometimes I stay back for half an hour just to upload my notes from the week. It's quiet in the office after everyone leaves. That kind of stillness that reminds me of church halls and old classrooms.

I don't dread it anymore.

By the time I get home, the sun has already stretched past the high windows of the apartment. The light hits the floor just right, turning the black marble counters into soft mirrors. I step out of my shoes by the door and let the silence settle again.

I've stopped looking over my shoulder.

Mostly.

The reading nook by the window has become my anchor. Every morning I sit there with my laptop balanced on a pillow, manuscripts pulled up in one tab, coffee in hand. I sip slowly. Edit slowly. Let the words of other people's lives flow through me so I don't have to think about mine.

There's comfort in routine. Wake up. Jog down the canal. Make toast. Edit. Water the plants. Sleep. Do it again. Every task is a box to tick. A reason to stay still.

And yet, the stillness doesn't feel empty.

Not yet.

This past Friday, Lars offered me a granola bar during a break. It was chocolate chip. I hesitated, then took it. We sat in the same room but didn't talk much. He worked through a pile of fantasy submissions, muttering about bad metaphors. I skimmed a romance draft that made me roll my eyes so hard I nearly dropped my coffee.

At one point, I laughed. Just a little. And it startled me - how unfamiliar the sound felt in my mouth.

That evening, on the tram back home, a woman across from me kept glancing in my direction. Middle-aged, red scarf, round face. She smiled at me like she knew me. I forced a polite nod and looked away.

When I glanced back, she was still watching. Her smile hadn't faded.

I got off two stops early. Walked the rest of the way in the cold.

Saturday was quiet. The kind of quiet that sits on your chest.

I found myself scrubbing the bathroom tiles at 9 a.m. Not because they were dirty - they weren't - but because I needed to move. To do something. After that, I rearranged the kitchen shelf, sorted the cutlery drawer, and threw out two chipped mugs I hadn't used since I moved in.

Midway through the afternoon, I found an old playlist I hadn't touched in years. I let it play on low volume and danced in the living room - barefoot, hair tied up, no mirrors.

For ten whole minutes, I forgot to think.

I went to the bakery on Sunday. I was going to get the usual - orange danish, black coffee - but before I could say anything, the guy behind the counter smiled and said, "You want the usual, right?"

I paused. "Do I come in that often?"

He grinned. "Every Sunday morning. Always with your hair down. Always in the same jacket."

I looked down at the sleeves. I hadn't realized how much I repeated myself.

"Right," I mumbled. "Yeah. The usual."

As I waited for the pastry, I glanced at the display glass in front of me. There was a smudge on it - a fingerprint, maybe, right where I usually stand. For some reason, it made me feel visible. Like I'd been showing up here without thinking, leaving pieces of myself behind for strangers to notice.

Later that evening, Jamie sent me a voice note. His messages always come in bursts. Quick updates. Jokes. Then a question with too much meaning tucked beneath it.

"Mum said you haven't called in two weeks. She thinks you're seeing someone. I didn't correct her."

There was a pause. I could hear him breathing on the other end.

"You're okay, right?"

I replied with a photo of my view - the city glowing just past the windowpane - and said, "I'm fine. Really. Work's been good. You'd like the croissants here."

He reacted with a thumbs up. Said nothing else.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. One hand resting on my chest like it might calm the flutter I couldn't name.

I'd built a life that was quiet. Predictable. Safe.

But lately, the silence has started humming again. Like it's hiding something underneath.

And when I walk past strangers now, they sometimes look at me like I've told them a secret I didn't mean to share.