The school bell rang, and students rushed out to leave the classroom.
"Zack, don't forget to send the essay. Last chance!" I said.
Zack replied, "Yes, ma'am," and he left with his backpack swinging over one shoulder.
Just as I reached the hallway, a firm voice called out to me, "Miss Shelly! Miss Shelly!"
I turned, and standing a few feet behind me was Mrs. Hargrove, a colleague of mine.
She rushed forward to meet me, slightly panting, she said, "Miss Shelly, can't you hear me? The principal asked for you."
I replied, "Ohh, thank you."
I made my way to the principal's office and knocked twice.
A voice from inside answered, "Come in."
I stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind me.
Seated before me was Mr. Harold, the school principal. Mr. Harold was the kind of principal who arrived before sunrise and often left long after the last student had gone home. His suit was always neatly pressed, though his tired eyes and ever-present coffee mug told a different story. Known for walking the halls more than sitting behind a desk, he knew most students by name and even more by their struggles.
He carried a clipboard instead of a phone, jotted notes with an old pen, and rarely missed a detail.whether it was organizing staff meetings, fixing a broken locker, or checking in on a failing student.
Mr. Harold did it all without complaint. His quiet determination and relentless work ethic earned him deep respect, even from the toughest kids. He had eyes wide like golf balls, always alert, as if he hadn't slept properly in days. Through his chapped lips, you could tell he overworked himself, but aside from that, he was a pretty wholesome person.
"Miss Shelly, you still haven't given me a response on the transfer we discussed. You should know why I picked you," Mr. Harold said.
I sighed,scratching my eyebrows. "I'm still figuring things out, and I don't really know if I want this new job. Besides, I don't have the strength," I said.
The principal laughed. I shot him a side-eye.
"Well, on Monday, please give me a response. Besides, it could be for a good cause."
"Very well. Goodbye, sir," I said as I proceeded to leave the office and quietly closed the door behind me.
Approaching the entrance of the school, I pulled out my phone and called for a cab. Five minutes later, a Maestro Brown Fiat Tipo pulled to a stop in front of me. Without hesitation, I quickly climbed in and let the door shut. It was time to go home.
Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of a narrow side street with a signboard that read "14th Catarat Street, The Huron Valley, "behind a market.My apartment stood at the far end of a three-story building. I moved ten steps before I could get to the front of my apartment, slipped through a narrow side gate, and entered the apartment.
A living room of red brick walls and polished oak floors, where soft lights pooled through the tall sash windows. A modern Eva sofa sat beside a low bookshelf filled with school books, art, and novels, directly opposite the 75-inch LG plasma TV. The faint scent of eucalyptus and mint welcomed me home.
I moved toward the left side of the room, and there was the master bedroom. It was spacious but not overwhelming, with soft grey walls and a large window draped in sheer dark-grey curtains. A queen-sized bed, layered with crisp black sheets and an even darker duvet, sat centered against the back wall, framed by a dark wooden headboard. The room was very dark with a faint white light at the side of the wardrobe.
Just entering, I jumped onto the bed,a sign of elation through exhaustion flowed through me. "Finally," I said, trying to hug the bed like a cute little baby, though my hands couldn't reach fully.
Feeling happy, my phone rang. I was too tired to pick it up, so I ignored it. It rang again; I still ignored it, and just like that my eyes closed slowly like ocean waves.
But just as I slept on, the city lay void outside my window. On the other side of town, someone else wasn't sleeping at all.
At the other end of town, at Lancenston Airport under the burning sun, Kimmie knew she had to go find her friend's house.
She was confused and annoyed as to why her friend wasn't picking up, wondering if she'd made the right choice in coming to Australia to visit her friend. She did tell her friend she would be coming, though.
"Should I find her house myself? Or just wait for her?"she thought.Besides, she had her friend's address. Also, even if she found the house, there would be no key to enter, she thought again.
"I'm so gonna kill her," she said with an angry face. But she still decided to wait.
Four hours had passed when I woke up . My eyes red, work clothes still on, and hair scattered. I had slept too well. With a tired look, I stretched to get my phone and froze. "Thirty-five missed calls." My eyes widened; the little sleep disappeared from them.
"Fuck," I muttered sharply. Then it hit me — my best friend was visiting. I looked at the time and saw that it was 10:14 p.m.
Worried, I had that look that said I had seriously messed up.
Disheveled as I was, I left the house like that and called for a cab. Three minutes later the cab arrived; I rushed in, slammed the door shut beside me, and said to the taxi driver, "Lancenston Airport, please," breathless.
"That will be thirty-five dollars," the taxi driver said, already pulling out onto the street.
As we were leaving, my phone rang. It was my best friend; my heart shook. I was scared to accept the call, but I knew I couldn't decline it.
I smacked my palm against my forehead and muttered, "Foolish me… why didn't I call sooner?"
I tapped to accept the call and waited, but there was silence — not static, not a bad connection, just silence. It was my best friend being angry, like really angry, and I knew it. Then I said quickly, "I'm so sorry, I'm almost there." Still no response from my best friend; I felt angry at myself, too, at that point.
But then a sigh — faint, but there. I felt a flicker of relief, and the call hung up.
The phone still at my ear; at least now I had assured my best friend I was on my way.
Kimmie, still sitting in the arrivals lounge waiting, was scolling through her phone, looking at Instagram reels half-interested. Just then she heard a faint call: "Kimmie!" She looked up, blinking, and scanned the crowd.
Kimmie saw her friend weaving through clusters of people, waving. She lifted her hand to wave too, not an excited wave but a calm, understated one — "I see you."
Her friend smiled and picked up the pace, dodging a slow-walking couple. But as she hurried forward, distracted by her own eagerness, she didn't see the man pulling his suitcase across her path.
Before Kimmie could even react, it happened: a sudden tangle of limbs, the screech of suitcase wheels, and then—"thud!" She saw her friend hit the ground.
Gasps echoed nearby. The man stumbled back, apologizing instantly. Kimmie shot up from her seat, ready to go to her friend, "It's fine, I wasn't looking …"I paused.The man,not bothering about me, already on his way.
Kimmie asked, "Shelly, are you okay?" I smiled, forgetting my bump with that man from earlier.
I replied, "You are no longer angry with me, right?" Kimmie gave me a side-eye.
"A little bit, but forget that. You are okay though, right?" she asked again. I finally replied, "Yes, I'm fine — just a little bump."
Just like that I gave her a big hug, arms wrapped around Kimmie like I hadn't seen her in years. And honestly, I hadn't — not properly.
Kimmie smiled; she was happy too and hugged me back just as warmly.
It was already 10:30 p.m. when the cab stopped at 14th Catarat Street, The Huron Valley — written on a small signboard. Kimmie and I came out of the cab; I held a pink 13-inch travel suitcase which belonged to Kimmie.
Carrying the suitcase, I moved forward and reached the entrance of my house. Pulling my keys from my pocket, I slid them into the lock and pushed the door open.
Kimmie followed through, entering into the sitting room. Kimmie fell onto the sofa.
"Gosh, I'm so tired," said Kimmie, exhaling deeply.
I went to keep her suitcase in my room. My voice came back, "Want anything?" I headed straight to the fridge.
"Gin would be nice," Kimmie replied.
I laughed. "I knew you would say that, my alcohol lady," I teased.
I pulled out a Beefeater 24 gin and went to get a tumbler from the cabinet in the kitchen, rinsed it, and moved to the sitting room where Kimmie was. I dropped the gin and tumbler on the coffee table, then poured a glass for her.
Kimmie, still tired, sat up and sipped from her drink. She sighed, feeling satisfaction. "This hits!"
I sighed. I stood up to get myself a spoon from the kitchen, then opened the fridge and grabbed a tub of ice cream, walking back to the sitting room.
I looked at Kimmie while slurping the ice cream from the spoon. Sitting down beside her, I said softly, "I'm so happy you are here."
Kimmie said softly, "I'm glad I'm here too."
Still slurping my ice cream, I asked, "So… how are things going for you?"
Kimmie sighed.
"I don't know, seriously. I'm just tired, and I wanna drink, and I'm sleepy." Her voice was low, her eyes half closed, already a little drunk.
She scoffed, saying softly, "Don't fall in love, it'll break your heart into a million pieces." And just then, her eyes closed.
You could tell she was tired. The journey was hectic, and she needed the rest. Besides, it was already late.
Kimmie is a sweet soul. She's the kind of person who walks into a room like she already belongs in your memories.
Not loud, but impossible to ignore.
She doesn't say much at first, but when she does, it's either exactly what you needed or something that leaves you thinking for days.
She laughs like she means it, doesn't fake-smile for anyone.
She remembers small things — your favorite color, the exact way you take your coffee , the song you said you hated but sang every time it came on.
When everything else is a mess, she doesn't fix it; she just sits next to you until it feels like maybe it can be fixed.
She is extremely beautiful. Everywhere we went, heads turned.
Her face was like a diamond — all sharp and elegant.
Her eyes were almond-shaped, like those of a doll's, but nothing fake about them.
Her nose was very small , like those ones you see in the movies — very delicate.
And those lips — wide, full, and as if something sweet was always about to come out of them.
She's my best friend, and now I couldn't do anything to make her feel alright.
She had just called off her wedding with her ex-fiancé — three years with him, three years of dreams, imagination, and plans. And now? All gone.
She'd just found out he was cheating on her. Not once, not even a mistake. I know she wasn't hurt by the betrayal; it was the fact that she didn't see it coming — the fact he wasted her time. Her time.
I know Kimmie , she valued her time, and now it was all gone. Three years — all gone.
I was still sitting on the sofa, watching her softly.
Kimmie had already slipped into her dreamworld, fast asleep on the sofa.
Quietly, I stood and fetched a duvet from my room, draping it over Kimmie without waking her.
I put the leftover ice cream back in the fridge, then went to my room. Glancing at the clock — 12:05 a.m. — I decided to sleep.
I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was Kimmie lying right next to me. Seems she had gotten up from the sofa and come to the bed.
Morning light had also begun to slip through the curtains — soft and golden. The light was annoying; I hated light. I always preferred being in an extremely dark room.
I stood up to close the curtains properly. The room dimmed — no side sunlight this time — and I crawled back to bed, careful not to disturb Kimmie.
Two minutes passed, and it seemed like the sleep had disappeared from my eyes. I got up quietly and walked to the bathroom. I could feel the cold pass through me from under my feet as they touched the tiles.
I sat on the toilet, letting my body go through the release. I felt free. I stood and cleaned up.
I reached for the toothbrush in the cabinet and grabbed the toothpaste. The minty smell hit me before the brush even touched my mouth.
I brushed slowly while looking at the mirror, the foam gathering over my mouth.
Three minutes had passed, and I was done. I turned on the tap and rinsed my mouth, also washing my face while still looking at the mirror.
I reached for the small towel next to me and dabbed it over my face, eyes still fixed on the mirror. I smiled, admiring my pretty face.
I put the small towel back in its place and went back into the room. Kimmie was still fast asleep. I glanced at the clock and saw it was 9:11 a.m.
It was a Saturday, which meant no school — a free day, a day of doing nothing at all. No loud bells or morning classes. It was a FREE DAY.
I stepped into the kitchen and reached for a bowl from the cabinet.
With ease, I pulled out the flour box and set it aside on the counter. I opened the fridge, grabbed two eggs, and cracked them swiftly into the bowl.
The sugar sat nearby; scooping spoonfuls into the bowl, then reaching for the bottle of vanilla, I added a drop into the bowl.
Everywhere seemed too silent, too quiet.
I paused.
I disappeared into the sitting room and picked up my AirPods, connecting them to my phone and letting the music fill the silence in my ears.
I returned to the kitchen, continuing with the mixture I was preparing. Close by was a sachet of milk; tearing it open, I poured it into the mixture.
I reached for a whisk and began to stir gently. While stirring, I slowly added the flour I had set aside into the mixture, watching it blend in with each turn.
I reached for a pan from the cookware rack and placed it on top of the cooker, turning the heat on. Grabbing a bottle of oil, I lightly greased the pan. With one hand, I reached for a ladle.
Carefully, I scooped some mixture into the pan, waited a few seconds, then flipped it. Golden brown. A few more seconds, and it was done. Carefully, I slid it onto a plate with quiet satisfaction.
Five minutes later, I was still handling pancakes, music booming in my ears, moving my body to the beat. I hadn't noticed when Kimmie walked in.
Kimmie, with sleepy eyes, looked over as I was dancing. She tapped my shoulder, I shook, almost dropping the batter.
"Good morning?" I said calmly, removing the AirPods from my ears.
Kimmie responded, "Good morning. Pancakes — exactly what I was craving."
I was still at the stove, the batter sizzling as I poured the last round. I dropped the empty bowl into the sink.
Kimmie walked over, rolling up her sleeves without saying a word. She turned on the tap and started washing the utensils and mixing tools I had used. Beside her, I stayed focused, flipping the final pancake with ease.
Kimmie didn't waste time with the tools; as soon as she had rinsed the last spatula, I was already flipping the pancake onto the plate.
Without missing a beat, I grabbed the syrup from the cabinet, then carefully carried the warm stack of pancakes into the sitting room, the smell of breakfast trailing behind me.
As I set the plates down in the sitting room, I turned to Kimmie.
"Do you want to eat your pancakes with fruits, tea, or ice cream?" I asked, walking back to the fridge.
Kimmie paused, thinking hard. "Mmm… either tea, fruit, or ice cream?"
Kimmie raised a brow. "Ice cream? In the morning?"
I grinned. "Don't judge me. Pancakes are basically dessert anyway — and I saw it online."
Kimmie laughed and stood up. "Alright, I'm going with fruit. And maybe tea. Ice cream sounds like a sugar crash waiting to happen."
I headed back to the fridge to grab what we needed.
Kimmie called after me, "If you're going to cut fruit, make it aesthetic, please. I want to feel like I'm on Pinterest."
I shouted back, "Only if you post it and tag me as your personal chef!"
We both giggled, already halfway into planning how we'd make our breakfast feel like a cozy café moment.