Page 66 of Last Christmas in London

‘I mean, what happens if you stay?’ His voice was almost a whisper now. ‘If you stop fixing, stop people-pleasing, stop running. What’s left?’

I hated how much the question shook me, and that I didn’t know the answer.

‘You think you’re living life to the full,’ he said, a little more direct now. ‘With your friend’s Christmas list and your fun runs, I see someone who’s scared to live her own life, or rather follow her dreams.’

A hot flare of anger rose in me, defensive, protective. What the hell did he know? We’d only known each other a few weeks. He didn’t get to dig into my life, into the cracks I kept hidden even from myself. And yet he wasn’t wrong, which was the worst part.

‘You’re allowed to want something for yourself, you know.’

I looked away, suddenly feeling too seen, too raw. His words sank into me, thick and uncomfortable, like swallowing a large marshmallow whole.

‘I should get going,’ I said abruptly, the lump in my throat making my voice tighter than I intended as I slipped from my chair.

Simon’s expression shifted, concern flashing across his face. ‘Evie, I—’

‘No, it’s fine,’ I cut in, forcing a small smile. ‘I have an early start with Pim tomorrow. The show’s only a few days away.’

‘Evie, I’m so—’ He seemed to growl at himself, as if he had realised his own mistake. ‘Can we walk to the station?’

‘I’m getting a bus,’ I lied.

St Martin-in-the-Fields was only a short walk away but Simon was standing and, despite the wonderful evening, I suddenly really wanted to be alone.

I had spent all evening confiding in him and now I regretted it. I felt as if I’d said too much, and just one comment from him had made me feel more unsteady than I had felt on the ice.

Simon hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but wary of saying something wrong – or more wrong – and I wasn’t ready for whatever it was he could say. So, instead, I leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. That shut him up.

‘Thank you for tonight,’ I murmured, my lips grazing the light stubble on his jaw. ‘It was really wonderful.’

Before he could react, or before I could change my mind, I turned and left.

Chapter 20

Ibarely slept that night. Simon’s words had embedded themselves in my brain like an irritating jingle. Was I really burying my own problems by dealing with everyone else’s? Running, not for adventure but from fear? It was easier to help others, to stay in motion, than to face the stillness of wanting something for myself – and risking losing it, as I lost Mum when I was ten.

For years I told myself I was chasing life, squeezing every moment dry because it might end too soon. But that was a lie. I wasn’t chasing anything, I was hiding. From loss, or from needing too much.

Somewhere in the chaos, the version of me who had dreams got lost. I’d become a professional helper, jumping into other people’s fires while mine quietly smouldered.

I was living day by day, not dream by dream, but I was sure I had had dreams once.

Simon’s voice echoed in my head: You’re allowed to want something for yourself, you know.

I hated that he saw it so clearly when I couldn’t. If he had figured it out after just a few weeks, how long had I been pretending?

No matter how many times I turned it over in my head, I couldn’t find a fault in his logic. He had seen right through me, in a way that made my stomach twist with resentment at him, at myself, at the truth of it all. Because he wasn’t wrong. And that was the worst part. He knew. He had lived it. And if he could see it in me so easily, then how long had I been fooling myself into believing I was fine?

By 5 a.m. I gave up on sleep. My body was exhausted but my mind wouldn’t stop. I took an extra-long shower, letting the hot water scald my skin as if it could burn away the unease curling inside me.

Megan and Josh hadn’t messaged me in nearly a week. Not a single check-in, not a meme, not even a passive-aggressive ‘I’m fine’ text. Nothing. And they were supposed to be my best friends. The people who knew me better than anyone.

My thumb hovered over my phone more than once, to call them or to reach out on the group chat. I could smooth it over – probably easily if I apologised for things I hadn’t done, or if I offered myself up as the bridge back to normality.

But I also knew that, if I did, it would be me bending again. Me absorbing the discomfort so that everyone else could stay where they were.

And I hadn’t even done anything wrong.

This couldn’t go on.