Always You || Simon Minter (miniminter)

Chapter 1

Everything feels muffled, like I'm living underwater. My limbs are heavy, my chest hollow, and even my thoughts move sluggishly, drifting without direction. Grief doesn't just hurt, it drains. It steals weight, colour, purpose. It leaves you suspended in some strange in-between place where nothing feels quite real.

It's been a month since my mother died. Thirty days of waking up and remembering all over again. She was the only steady thing in my life, the one person who made the world make sense. Without her, everything inside me has come undone, unraveling faster than I can gather the pieces.

My apartment has become both sanctuary and prison. The curtains stay drawn, trapping me inside the dim, dusty light that never quite reaches the corners of the room. Days blur together. My meals are mostly pot noodles and crisps — anything that doesn't require more effort than boiling water. My phone is permanently on silent. I've ignored messages, calls, emails... everything. People tried reaching out at first, then eventually stopped. I think they assumed I needed space. The truth is I didn't want space — I wanted the world to stop existing.

Tonight is like most nights. I'm curled up in the same dent in my mattress, wrapped in a blanket that still faintly smells like fabric softener from a wash weeks ago. Netflix plays quietly on my laptop, a show I've seen a hundred times because it demands nothing from me — no attention, no emotion, no investment. It's just sound. Background noise to drown out the thoughts that get too loud when the apartment goes silent.

Ding.

The notification cuts through the haze. I blink at my phone lying face-down on the bed beside me. I should've turned it off ages ago, but turning it off feels too final, too much like admitting I don't want anyone reaching me.

Ding.

Another one. My heart gives a small, involuntary thud — a reminder that it's still functioning even if I barely feel alive. Against my better judgment, I pick up the phone.

From Jide:
Yo Amelia please phone me, I'm desperate to talk to you. Please talk to me, I want to help :(

Jide. Of course it's him. He's the one person who never stops trying, even when I disappear. He was my constant long before fame found him — before the cameras, the fans, the chaos of his new life. We grew up glued to each other, the type of friends who understood each other with one look.

And I've shut him out completely.

Guilt stings the back of my throat. I want to reply, but the idea of talking — of speaking out loud about anything at all, feels impossible. Still, I owe him something. And maybe... maybe I'm tired of being silent.

My thumb hovers over his name. Before I can talk myself out of it, I press call.

It only rings once.

"Millie?" His voice is thick with relief. "Oh my god, Amelia, where have you been? I've been trying for weeks to get you to repl—"

He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply. When he speaks again, his tone is softer, more controlled.

"I'm sorry. I just... I've been worried sick. How are you? I've missed you. Why haven't you spoken to me?"

I swallow hard. Hearing concern from someone who actually means it is disarming in a way I wasn't prepared for.

"I'm doing okay," I lie, my voice cracking despite my effort to keep it steady. "I just didn't want to talk."

"Millie," he says quietly, "you don't have to pretend with me. I know you. And I know you're not okay. Where are you?"

"In my apartment." The words barely escape my throat.

There's a beat of silence. Not awkward, just heavy. Thoughtful.

"Right," he says eventually. "I want you to come visit me. I've just moved house with some lads I think you'll actually like. You shouldn't be alone right now. No one should. And I'm not letting you deal with this by yourself. Please."

His voice cracks at the end, and that alone knocks the air out of me. Jide rarely shows vulnerability. It sits strangely between us, warm and grounding.

I open my mouth to argue, to say I don't want to be a burden, but the fight inside me has been worn thin. And maybe... maybe he's right. Maybe being alone is the worst thing for me right now.

"Are you still there?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," I breathe. "I'm here. And fine... I'll come visit. But only if I get one of your famous cuddles."

He laughs. The first genuine sound I've heard in weeks that doesn't make my chest ache.

"You'll get the biggest cuddle, trust me."

We talk logistics, though Jide barely gives me time to process anything before telling me he's already booked a train. Tonight. Within hours. Classic him — acting first, thinking later, always in a rush to fix what he can.

—

A couple hours later, I'm stepping out into the evening air, the cold hitting my face like a wake-up slap. The world outside smells different , crisp, sharp, real. My bag feels heavy across my shoulder, my legs almost unused to moving more than a few steps at a time.

For a moment, standing at the edge of the pavement, I think about turning back. My apartment is familiar. Quiet. Predictable. But even as I consider it, something inside me whispers that staying would be worse.

My phone rings again.

"Hello," I say, pulling my scarf tighter around my chin.

"You at the station yet?" Jide asks, sounding way too energised. "Want to make sure you got there okay."

"I'm here," I say. "Train's leaving soon."

"Good. I'll be waiting on the platform when you arrive. And I'm not joking about the cuddle."

His enthusiasm warms something inside me, something dormant.

We end the call, and I step onto the train, finding my seat. The carriage is half-full — commuters, students, people living their normal lives. I envy them, in a way. The simplicity. The unbrokenness.

I pull out my laptop, slot in my earphones, and open YouTube. If I'm about to walk into a house full of Jide's friends, I should probably know who they are — beyond the chaotic glimpses I've accidentally seen online.

As videos load, a knot of nerves forms in my stomach. What if I'm too quiet? Too drained? Too fragile? What if I pull the whole atmosphere down?

But then, beneath the fear, something steadier flickers.

Hope.

A small, cautious, unfamiliar kind of hope.

Maybe leaving isn't running away.
Maybe it's the first step toward coming back.