An Impossible Thing Called Love. Belinda Missen

house just off Harrow Road. Our scratched-up suitcases banged against the polished wood banister with each misplaced step. Inwardly, I cringed. Please don’t let me be here five minutes and be breaking things already.

      ‘Here we are…’ Heather pushed the front door open with an excited flourish and dragged me inside.

      The apartment was bright and airy, full of white paint and gloss-white kitchen fittings. A grey couch and aqua cushions added blobs of homely colour, and red placemats clung to a lightly stained wooden dining table. Light breezy curtains hung in rooms with dark drapes, and the single bathroom in the upper storey was shared by all. For all the photos I’d seen, it hadn’t prepared me for how I’d feel.

      This was, despite the exhaustion, sheer exhilaration. I flopped down on the couch, a foot stool soon adorned with a tray full of homemade biscuits. A pot of tea appeared shortly after, as an excited Heather told me about her latest baking adventures and fresh interest in all things tea. We caught up on the last week spent running around and preparing to leave, all the scandals and drunk uncle stories from our farewell party, and the boring details of our flight. While I moaned about the smelly guy next to Craig and laughed about the toddler who came to say hello and high-five every forty minutes, Josh busied himself hanging comic prints on the wall.

      After the hammering had ceased, the biscuits were eaten, and my mind finally began to slow, we relaxed with showers and began putting personal touches on our bedroom. Lace curtains, bookended by heavy drapes, blew in the breeze. Just as she’d promised, Heather had organised a new duvet, spare blankets and pillows, and a few stackable blocks I’d already earmarked as potential bookshelves.

      Our bed was a cloud soft and, as I lay back for a moment, the pillows hugged in all the right places. I curled onto my side and closed my eyes.