I breathe in and out slowly, gazing at the ceiling with a blank expression. Her top is back in the box, which I've pushed right back under the bed again. I never should have looked in there; it resurfaced way too many memories. I am drained. I am numb.

And yet at the same time, I'm feeling a little better. Like I've just had my first breath of fresh air since Bailey's death. I try not to acknowledge the fact that my breathing slows for a split second as I think about her. My heart aches for her, but it's only an ache. Not that heart-wrenching, gut-wrenching feeling I've become accustomed to. Everything is coated in a gauze, and while I know it's not healthy, I am grateful for this curtain between me and my feelings. Maybe I can try and be normal for once.

I stayed in the same position for so long, head buried in her top, and conscious the whole time. It felt like forever passed in a minute. I realised I might cover up her smell if I kept the top near me for too long, so I put it away and stayed staring at the ceiling, watching how the marks on it seemed to change with the light as it faded, and then grew again into the new morning. I still haven't moved.

I sit up slowly, feeling dizzy at first, but it fades quickly and I'm able to get to my feet with only a little swaying. My hair is a mess and my clothes are completely crumpled. If my mother was here I don't know what she'd be saying, and I don't want to find out, either. She hasn't visited in a few days, so unless I want to find out, I should get moving. Calling her comings over here visits seems wrong, somehow. Drop-bys. Check-ins. Not visits; there is nothing casual about the things my mother feels the need to do for her fully-grown mess of a son.

But it's not just the prospect of my mother's pending arrival that urges me to move and clean myself up properly. I'm going to make the most of this emotional break, shove the exhaustion aside, and do something grown-up, something good for me.

I shower in cold water, relishing how it feels as it runs down my back and through my dirty hair, washing away all of the grime and stress from the past few days. I rub the skin underneath my eyes, massaging out the tension and strain. I watch the bubbles run from between my fingers as I lather it on, down the bath to the plughole, where they dance round one another, expanding and shrinking until finally it all goes down the pipes. Who ever said cold showers were bad? They're one of the most refreshing things, and I can nearly always use them to clear my mind a little, if not fully.

As I step out of the bath onto the cold tiles, just two thoughts are running through my mind: it's going to be okay, and Bailey would be so proud. A tingling sensation runs down my spine at this, and I shiver happily, wrapping a towel from the back of the door around my waist.

I feel cleaner and calmer, running a hand through my wet hair to push it out of my way. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and rub shaving foam all across my jaw, making sure to cover all my skin. My hands shake as I raise the razor, just like they do every time, and I do my best to steady them, breathing deeply.

Afterwards, as I watch the foam and remains of my previous stubbly beard run down the plughole, I wonder whether I should have trimmed it into the bin first. Unblocking the sink pipes because it all went down there instead is not my idea of a fun afternoon. But it's too late now.

I tighten the towel around my waist before choosing out some black jeans, a top and hoodie. Nothing special, but so much better than my previous attire. I hum softly as I dry the rest of myself, pulling my clothes on roughly.

I keep up the tune as I go downstairs, realising how hungry I am. The cupboards are fully stocked, of course, courtesy of my mother. I pull out ingredient after ingredient, feeling like doing some baking. I stumble across a bunch of bananas, and an idea pops into my head. Banana bread. Always one of my favourite things, but Bailey didn't like it so I didn't really eat it while we were together— only when mum took pity on me and made it for the days when Bailey wasn't there. Not to say I couldn't have had it, I just didn't want to eat something different to her when we were spending time together, which was so much of the time. Every opportunity possible we were together. So banana bread got shoved aside. A trivial matter, but something I can enjoy now.

I smile at the memory of our many meals together, messing about and laughing and feeding each other random mouthfuls, sharing a seat to be closer, and just eating out of the pan. Or takeaways in the living room watching a movie under blankets, crying and laughing and screaming along together, hands joined.

Now I cry alone.

The methodical up-down of the knife as I slice and dice is soothing; wrist movements followed by the click-clack at either end of the board, accompanied by my humming. I feel a calmness settle over me, even when I move on to kneading the dough. I've finally reached a break in the clouds, and gosh it feels good.

The banana bread goes into the oven, and I sit at the kitchen table with my coffee to wait it out. I'll cook more food, proper food, but not until the bread's cooling. I tap my nails against the mug, smiling as one particular memory crosses my mind.

I was sitting in this exact same spot, coffee in hand, keeping Bailey company while she painted her nails. She finished the final one and put the brush back into the pot. A pale colour— nude. Just like all of her makeup, she kept the colouring on her nails barely noticeable, but there. Her lipstick always matched exactly. She sang softly to herself.

Bailey's nails are nearly dry when she suddenly looks up at me, eyes shining. "Let me paint your nails."

I splutter, nearly spitting the coffee in my mouth across the room. I manage to avoid it by spitting it back into the mug cradled in my hands instead. I don't really fancy cleaning up coffee stains from the cream surfaces, disgusting as the alternative is. I stare at her, thinking she's joking, but she looks straight back at me, deadly serious, if a little over-excited about a prospect I've not even agreed yet. And there's no way I'm agreeing.

"No way! Why would you even ask that?"

"It'll be fun! Come on!" she says eagerly, grabbing my arm.

I shake my head and clutch the coffee mug closer, though it doesn't bring much comfort or heat any longer. I stare into its contents and wonder whether I should still drink it.

"Please?" She puts on her best pleading voice, elongating the last syllable, and I have to resist looking up. I'll give in if I see her face.

"No. The boys will make fun of me, and I can't be bothered to deal with that! It's bad enough you've got me growing my hair out."

She laughs at this, running a hand gently through the emerging curls at the bottom of my hair, and tucking a shorter strand behind my ear, which pops straight back into my face again as it's still too short. She smiles at this, and I huff, standing to take my coffee cup over to the sink. I'm definitely not drinking that, I don't know how I even considered it. And I'm definitely never admitting to her that I kind of like my hair long.

"Please, Allie?" I freeze midway to the sink at her nickname for me. "Just let me try it. You'll like it, I promise!"

I turn slowly to look at her. She sits in her chair, one leg crossed over the other and a sweet, excited smile on her face, pleading eyes wide. I battle inside, unsure of what to do. How can I resist that face? I groan, rubbing my free hand over my face.

"I'm gonna regret this. Just hurry up before I change my mind."

She squeals and jumps up, running from the room presumably to get the varnish.

I spin around and pour the now-cold coffee down the sink before putting it on the side. I lean heavily on the counter for a moment, before straightening and sitting back in my seat to wait for Bailey to return. I honestly had no idea what to expect.

I chuckle into the top of my mug now, thinking about how shocked I was when she sat back next to me clutching a bright-red pot of nail varnish.

"Hands flat on the table," she says, starting to unscrew the lid as I just stare in shock at the pot, hands resting in my lap still. She looks up expectantly, smiling.

"What is that?"

She looks confused by my question for a moment, her eyes going down to the pot of varnish, then back up to me, and it's like a light bulb goes on.

"Oh. Red nail varnish."

The way she says it almost makes me laugh.

"Yeah, I know. I can see that." To which she shrugs, looking at me like I'm crazy and clearly not understanding my qualms at all.

"I thought I was getting a less noticeable colour like yours, not bright red!"

She grins and waggles the brush under my nose. "I thought this would look nice! It's not as noticeable as it seems, I promise. Just trust me, I'm the one that's worn it before."

I nod slowly, but I'm still hesitant as I put my hands on the table, peering anxiously over her shoulder as she fills my nails with colour in careful strokes, like an artist puts paint onto a canvas. It's a fascinating process to watch. She doesn't take too long, and before I know it I have two hands of bright red nails. She definitely lied, they're really bright.

I remember freaking out at first and wanting to take it straight back off, but she stopped me, and I'm glad she did, because in the end I fell in love with them. The boys made fun of me at first, but they grew used to it, to me and my evolving style, and I was sad when it started coming off.

I smile into my next sip of coffee, suddenly remembering that I kept that particular bottle of nail polish. I wasn't going to, but in the end I did, and I'm pretty sure it's in the bottom draw of my bedside drawers still.

I leave my mug on the table and go in search, finding it and gleefully heading to the bathroom to put it on. And when I say put it on, I mean get most of it on the edge of the bath where I'm resting my hands, and the rest on the skin around my nails. I don't remember it being this hard when Bailey did it.

I only manage to finish two fingers and clean up the excess mess before I have to get the banana bread out of the oven, but I come back afterwards to do the other hand. It's painfully slow work, with lots of swearing and frustrated groaning in between, but after hundreds of strokes in the wrong place, I finally manage it.

It only took two and a half hours.

By the time I'm finished, my abandoned coffee is cold, and I have to chuck it out. The amount of coffees that have been chucked down my sink because I forget about them, I'm surprised it's not completely blocked. I smile at my nails, the bottle of varnish now safely back where it came from until next time.

Which is when I realise I've still not eaten, and my stomach's rumbling manically. So I head back downstairs, finding the bread cool. I decide to make pancakes, Bailey's favourite; something for me, something for her. I'm just flipping the first over when there's a knock at the door.

I answer it with the pain still in my hand, shocked to see Tommy and his girlfriend, Stella, on the other side. They seem just as shocked to see me as I am to see them, until Tommy gets over himself and steps forward for a huge, though it's awkward with the pain still in my hand. I don't know why they're shocked. This is actually my house.

"Hey, man! It's so good to see you up and about— and cooking!" He takes a step back. "And dressed, as well! Where's the party?"

He ends with a grin, and I laugh, gesturing for them to come in. I raise a hand in a half-wave to Stella as she passes, which she returns with a hand on my arm. I look down at the spot she touched for a second. I think she's the first girl to touch me, excluding my mum, since Bailey. And it happened in such an inconsequential moment. I never expected that.

"Banana bread? Yes, please!"

I smile behind my hair as Tommy quickly makes himself at home. I dump the pan back on the hob, pancake gone cold— I notice a theme there, today— and then head back to lean against the doorframe of the kitchen to watch him as he gets out plates and a knife.

"You know? Thank goodness for your mother. Without her, I wouldn't ever find anything in here."

"You don't need to, it's not your house."

He snorts at this, cutting into the banana bread. Typical Tommy; no questions asked, just straight in with the food. Grubs up! As he'd put it.

"I might have been saving that for something." I gesture at the now cut-open bread, wincing as he pulls the knife back to leave a very wonky slice. Tommy looks up at once, to give me a look of disdain, then back down to focus on the food.

"He's got a point, Tom. Plus, you'd find stuff with no trouble if this place was a mess, the state you leave our kitchen in. I wish you'd worry about that at ours!" Stella smiles slightly as she speaks, and Tommy snorts again, gesturing wildly with his hands and chewing as he responds.

"But that's an organised mess, Stell. I know where everything is," he says, nodding as though that makes it all okay, and shoves another piece of bread into his mouth.

"That's one way to put it, I guess." She winks mischievously at me, and I chuckle softly to myself. Their relationship is so easy-going.

For a moment it makes me feel so lonely, but then I think of being with someone other than Bailey and it makes me want to retch. So I push it aside, just like I always do. Often, that cycle of thoughts will run for a long while, debating. But there's no other result possible to come of it. Bailey was the one for me, and now she's gone. That's it. There's no second chances.

I move to sit at the table opposite Stella, frowning at Tommy as he cuts another wonky slice.

"So how are you, then?"

I smile at the question, and so does he, realising how stupid it is. But we don't say anything about it, as though it's perfectly normal.

"I'm good," I mumble, looking down at my nails so a broader smile spreads across my face. Tommy notices and looks over closely to see why, taking a sharp breath when he sees the colour.

"When— When did you do that?"

I try to hide my amusement at his shock, shrugging casually, "Earlier."

I look back down at their bright colour resting against my dark trousers, tapping them lightly. The movement is just enough that they catch the light.

"They're quite something, aren't they? Took me a lot of attempts to do, I must say."

Tommy nods, and I can see that Stella is eyeing them with a critical eye. I curl my fingers underneath my palms, feeling self-conscious.

"I can certainly see that. I'll teach you to do them properly next time, if you like?"

I nod, and take the knife from Tommy's hand where it froze. I cut myself a slice, making sure to straighten out the end of the loaf at the same time. Like my mother, I cannot stand a carelessly-cut loaf.

"What about the thing you were cooking? It looked like pancakes?"

I nod and pull a face, then take a bite of my slice of banana bread, and chew slowly as I walk over to the hob to finish cooking the batter I made up. The bread is good, but it could have done with more banana in it, I think. I'll add another in next time.

"Has your mother been by recently?"

I nod absentmindedly in response, scraping the cold, soggy pancake into the bin with a wooden spatula and pouring some more mixture into the pan.

Yeah, she came by a few days ago. Kicked me out of my own house."

Tom snorts, and Stella laughs.

"Sounds like Liz."

I nod again, watching the mixture bubble slightly. If one of those bubbles popped too close to a person, I wonder what would happen?

"Yeah. I slunk off to Addie's house. Cried on his sofa."

Neither of them bat an eyelid at my words, and I bob up and down slowly to a tune in my head, humming softly when the chorus comes up. I didn't expect them to react. If they had, that would have been out of the ordinary.

"Did you meet his new girl?"

I stop humming, looking up from the pan to the blank wall above like it might hold all the answers.

"Girl? No?"

Addie has a new girl. Why didn't he tell me? Because I was too busy soaking his shirt with my tears. He probably didn't feel it was appropriate, considering the reason I was crying— the reason I'm always crying— was— is— a girl. Not that there aren't going to be any tears today.

I can't really blame him for not telling me, given the situation, but I can't stop a seed of resentment from nestling itself in my chest. For not being kept in the loop. For being unable to cope. For making my friends feel they can't tell me things.

I flip the pancake, trying to let my worries go with it, and taking great satisfaction as it drops neatly back into the pan with a dull thud. The sound of my heart. Nothing is more satisfying than flipping a pancake. A year ago, I might have said that a good cry after keeping feelings cooped-up was the most satisfying thing, but I cry oceans too often for that to be true anymore. The pancake sizzles in the butter.

Satisfying now is managing to get out of bed and put a smile on my face. Satisfying now is cooking something— anything. Satisfying now is getting dressed, and managing to get out of the house, or see people. Satisfying now is managing not to cry.

I'd say today has been a pretty satisfying day. Against all the odds of the past few days' trials, I'm doing okay. Some days are just better for no reason, I guess. It could go at any moment, as quickly as it came. But that's something I'm prepared for, in exchange for this reprieve from my tumultuous emotions.

I suddenly realise that Tommy's been talking this whole time and I wasn't listening. I listen closely now, trying to pick back up the conversation threads, but I can't grasp what he's on about.

"...so we just kept talking, right, and it wasn't until they took away our plates and Kitty's was still there, full, and she still wasn't back, that we realised something must be wrong. Addie had been and come back, right, so they can't have been having any—" He pauses to whistle, winking, "— if you get what I mean."

"Not that that's a very Addie thing to do, Tom," Stella smiles, eyes twinkling.

He shrugs, hiding a grin, and continues, "Well, anyways. We sent Stella in after Kitty, to find her, and she'd gotten herself stuck in the loo!"

Stella shuckles at this, shaking her head at the table, like she and it share some secret joke the rest of us don't know. "Poor girl. What an introduction."

They both pause and look up at me, clocking the confusion on my face. "What, sorry? You've lost me..."

Tom responds with a smile and a shake of his head, a wordless sign not to worry about it. I wish he'd just say it again, so I can hear, because I'm interested. Just because I didn't hear the first time doesn't mean I'm not interested, and doesn't mean I'm suddenly needing to be treated like I never know what's going on, or I'm stupid. Everyone zones out sometimes, it was just unfortunate timing on my behalf.

I know it's not Tommy's fault, and he doesn't mean to be so patronising. But that very pitying smile is what's so awful, and just makes me angry. Not over-the-top, smash-things-up anger, but a sad anger, born of too-long mourning, too-long not coping, too-long being pushed aside for being 'incapable'. If I was just given the chance, I might be able to push everything aside and actually do stuff.

Like today. Look at me— dressed, cooking, and entertaining guests. Painted nails and memories of her in my head without breaking down. If this isn't a massive improvement, if this isn't coping; actually "doing stuff", then what is? And I did all of it myself.

I flip the pancake onto a plate and pour another lot of the mixture into the pan, attempting a smile. I only manage a small one, but that's something. Pain and hurt still sit tight in my chest, constricting my every movement, but I do my best to work through it. I refuse to let something so trivial ruin my day. Tommy means well. That's all that matters.

Fifteen minutes of small talk later, we have a plate piled high with pancakes, and are eating them with sugar and lemon juice. Tommy licks his fingers in appreciation, a huge grin on his face just like every time he has food in front of him.

"Good?"

He nods enthusiastically, and Stella gives a thumbs up and a smile.

"How about you?"

I pause for a moment. We all know he's not just talking about the pancakes. But I smile, knowing he means well. And I honestly mean what I answer.

"Yeah. It's good."