opia; matty healy.

27%

Whilst in London I find myself wandering the stalls of markets in search of quirky souvenirs to return with to Wilmslow. Nothing catches my eye in particular, until I come across a red book with gold lettering reading: 'no one has it all figured out'. I flip through the pages, appearing to take the shape of a normal novel as I lean over to the older lady and ask her for the price.

"Take it," she tells me, "that's been in the family for far too long," and she lets me keep it without paying a dime.

I forget about it until we reach our small apartment. Dad had booked a two-bedroom place for the weekend, recommended by one of his colleagues who had been here on a family vacation only a few weeks back. With Christmas nearing, it was a surprise that the place wasn't already booked out in the weeks to come.

I had texted Matty a few times, but mostly Charlie and I started up conversation again. It felt as if the strange feeling I got around him had never occurred, the events of the past forgotten. He called me on the first night, Saturday, and told me about his defeat against the kitchen when he'd managed to successfully bake his mother a birthday cake. I passed on my wishes to her and we hung up.

I made multiple attempts to call Matty over the last couple of days, but each time he'd claim his Mum was already mad that he'd had us come over during his grounded period. Due to this, any phone calls would involve her barging in and forcing him up to do chores. He makes Denise sound far worse than she is, although then I suppose most things are disguised from us when it comes to others' parents.

I get the chance to read the first few pages of the book I'd bought earlier today when we reach the apartment around 6pm. I'm ready for dinner before my parents. Dad's booked at a small restaurant we walked past earlier in the day, which again his colleague had suggested he try.

The first few pages are cryptic and hard to understand, but as the story unfolds I become enthralled with the author's writing. After a chapter or so I flip to the bag, expecting to see an author's name or initials. I read every back and front page, coming to the conclusion that the book is so ancient they hadn't advertised the author's writing when it was published.

I spend all night reading the book, curling up in the bed sheets at two in the morning when my eyes are finally too tired to read on. The story follows a young girl who's been following her mother's footsteps for the first few years of her adult life. Despite her family's success, being the daughter of a successful American Mayor is not in the cards for the girl, and with a history of easy work behind her she flies off to a small town in France. She finds herself away from everything she ever knew, meeting new people and met with new challenges as well as familiar hardships she'd faced growing up.

It's a heart wrenching story when the girl reaches a point where she feels the world falling apart, regretting every decision she's made up until now. I resonate with her in a way, and as if I needed them myself, young Amelia receives a few words of wisdom from an older lady who hired her earlier in the summer. I repeat the words in a whisper to myself as we pass more of the British countryside, covered in tiny raindrops and larger puddles.

"Amelia," the older woman told her, "You sit here and you feel sorry for yourself but you forget that if you were dealt only a good hand of cards you would be in pursuit of nothing."

As I read over these lines, Mumford & Sons played in my ears. It was a perfect, sunset moment. The words rung true to me beyond their immediate understanding. All my life I had taken for granted the moments that hurt most, wishing they would end – and for good reason. All the breakups with friends, the fights, the arguments with my parents and the moments lying in bed wishing I'd be dead so I'd never have to feel sad about my parents' absence. They all meant something.