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(â 5k words. Angst / Breakup. Does not contain smut. Emotional heartbreak. Established relationship)
The day had already tilted off its axis before it had properly started, that flat, unrelenting January grey that seeps into every corner and leaves the world feeling strangely misaligned. Early 2005, the air raw with the persistent sting of winter, and Arabella had scarcely slept on the train north from King's Crossâhours spent staring at her pale reflection in the night-black window, silently rehearsing sentences that dissolved the moment she reached for them.
When she stepped onto the platform at Sheffield Midland, the cold struck her like a sudden immersion, but it was nothing against the hard knot lodged low in her chest. Alex was waiting, propped against the barriers with his hands buried in his coat pockets, hair dishevelled as though he had dragged his fingers through it repeatedly on the drive over. He caught sight of her, summoned a smile that never fully formed, and crossed the distance between them.
The smile began instinctively, then wavered midway. She felt the strain in itâthe effort required to hold it in place. She offered something back, thin and weary, and walked towards him as if her legs belonged to someone else entirely.
"You alright, love?" he asked, drawing back just far enough to study her face. The shadows beneath her eyes betrayed herâdeep, livid, as though she had been carrying the weight of sleepless nights across her skin.
"Aye," she answered, too swiftly, coaxing a frail smile. "Just knackered. Haven't slept proper in weeks."
He remained silent, refrained from pressing, but held his gaze a fraction longer. He kissed her thenâgentle, cautious, as if a firmer touch might fracture the brittle space between them. Her lips were chilled against his, barely yielding, and the lack of response twisted something sharp inside him.
"Fancy summat t'eat?" he suggested, retreating to familiar ground, his hand still resting lightly at her elbow as though the contact might steady them both.
"Nah," she said, shaking her head. "Let's just... go somewhere nice, yeah, Al?"
The words sounded ordinary enough, yet they carried a weight that made his guts lurch. He nodded all the same, guided her out towards the car park without further comment. The city murmured around themâbuses exhaling as they pulled away, metal shutters rattling downwards on shopfrontsâbut the sounds arrived muffled, as if filtered through thick glass. He attempted a weak joke about the weather remaining as grim as ever, but it withered in the cold without resonance.
She produced a faint exhale that might have passed for amusement, yet her hands remained tucked deep inside her sleeves, fingers concealed as though she dared not let them tremble in the open.
Inside the car, the confines felt constricted, the silence no longer the companionable sort they had once known but something denser, almost corporeal, wedged uncomfortably between the seats. Alex started the engine; the heater unwillingly wheezed into life, and he drove more slowly than usualâone hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on her thigh, not clutching, merely present. A mute tether against the gathering storm.
She gazed out of the passenger window, jaw rigid, observing the familiar streets glide past without truly registering them: the weathered terraces with paint flaking in the damp, corner shops still draped in faded Christmas lights, the thin, acrid trace of coal smoke drifting from chimneys in the older rows that had yet to surrender to central heating.
The distance between them was no longer measured merely in miles from London; it had infiltrated the scant inches separating their bodies, rendering each breath a quiet reminder of how far apart they had drifted.
He glanced at her once or twice, but she did not turn, and he did not speak. Bolehills drew him instinctively, the road climbing without conscious decisionâtheir vantage point, surveying the city as though it remained something they could still encompass.
He eased into the familiar lay-by, switched off the engine, and the abrupt hush struck like a physical blow. Below them, Sheffield lay spread in its muted winter paletteârooftops subdued beneath the low ceiling of cloud, the Don threading sluggish and metallic through the valley floor. To the west, the view opened towards the Rivelin and Loxley valleys, the moors rolling away into the Peaks, bare branches etched sharp against the haze.
This hill had always been theirs: languid evenings at seventeen with cheap lager and roll-ups, colder nights cocooned in shared coats, debating escape or endurance or anything that still felt within reach. Now it appeared diminished. Contained. As though it could be folded away and forgotten.
The engine ticked as it cooled. Neither made a move to leave the car. The windows began to mist faintly at the margins from the warmth of their breathing.
Arabella inhaled a breath that sounded ragged, as if the air carried grit. Her hands remained knotted in her lap, knuckles blanched. Alex observed her from the periphery of his vision, waiting, a cold dread settling in his stomach like undigested metal. He shifted in his seat, the prolonged quiet needling him.
"D'you remember," he began slowly, probing, "that time up 'ere when tha made me stand stock still for five minutes wi' that camera, an' I proper lost me temper?"
Arabella offered no reply. Her stare remained fixed on the windscreen.
"You kept sayin' 'don't think about it', remember?" he continued, voice softening, edging towards fondness. "An' I were goin' on about how you can't not think about it when someone's aimin' a lens straight at your face."
He allowed himself a small huff of recollection. "So I saidâdead cocksure, mindâthat tha should just take the shot blind. No fussin' wi' composition, no clever angles. Just... snap." He risked a sidelong glance. "That picture turned out proper rubbish," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "All skewed. City lights streaked like someone'd smeared 'em wi' a wet thumb."
"But I liked it," he added, quieter. "Told ya' it were the only one where I didn't look like I were strainin' t'be summat I weren't. You said that were exactly the point."
He turned towards her then, anticipating a nudge, a flicker of shared memory, the ghost of a smile. And froze.
Arabella had drawn inward, shoulders hunched protectively. One hand pressed to her mouth, knuckles bearing the pressure as though physically restraining what threatened to spill. Her eyes glistened, lashes darkened with moisture.
"Bells..." Alex exhaled, her name scarcely audible.
She shook her head, breath stuttering as she fought to regulate it.
"I'veâ" she began, voice fracturing immediately. She swallowed. "I don't know how t'say this without it comin' out all twisted."
"I've been churnin' it over in me head for weeks," she whispered, eyes falling to her lap. "Proper weeks. Every way I frame it sounds awful."
Alex leaned nearer, hand suspended midway, uncertain whether contact would anchor or unravel her further.
"What tha on about?" he asked, gentle. "Is it... uni? London? The job? Has summat gone wrong?"
She emitted a fractured sound that aspired to laughter but achieved only sorrow. "There's no soft way round it," she said. "I just... I can't do this anymore."
"What exactly d'you mean?" he asked, measured.
Arabella kept her face averted towards the windscreen, as though meeting his eyes might solidify everything too swiftly. The city lights below shimmered faintly at the periphery of her vision, the subdued glow of Sheffield spread out like a chart she no longer knew how to interpret.
"I can't keep going on like this," she said at last. "I'm grinding mesen down to nowt."
Alex shifted closer, narrowing the scant gap between seats. His hand settled on her shoulder, warm and instinctive, thumb tracing a slow, absent arc across the wool of her coat as though the small motion might moor her.
"Like what?" he asked softly. "You've just been shattered, haven't ya? London'll do that t'anyone."
She shook her head, a flicker of frustration tightening her features. "It's not just shattered. I don't feel like mesen. Haven't for a good while." She paused, grasping for words that slipped away. "It's as if I'm always on the verge of balance, but never quite there."
Alex listened, nodding slowly, though puzzlement shadowed his eyes. His hand slid to the centre of her back, a quiet, protective pressure he could not suppress.
"Everyone feels wobbly now and then," he offered, cautious. "Doesn't mean summat's broken."
"I know," she replied, sharper than she intended. "I'm not sayin' I'm special. It's justâ" She faltered, breath snagging. "I barely recognise mesen these days. And I can't tell how much is London, how much is uni, and how much is..."
Her voice thinned, fragile as the frost forming on the glass.
"When I'm with you," she continued, "it lifts. Honest. I can breathe again. Like I slip back into my own skin."
His hold tightened a fraction, fleeting relief easing the tension in his face. "That's good, then," he murmured. "That meansâ"
"But when you leave," she interrupted, finally turning to him, tears clinging stubborn to her lashes, "when I'm back on that train and you're not there, it all collapses harder than before. Like I've been borrowing the feelin' just to scrape through, an' then there's nowt left."
Alex went very still. The brief warmth ebbed away, replaced by a colder, denser weight.
"I miss you an' all," he said after a pause, striving to keep his voice level. "All t'time."
She gave a small, helpless shake of her head. "It's not just missing you."
"It's not just missing you," she repeated, softer, as though the admission itself drained her.
Alex studied her, brow creased, waiting.
"I can't settle to owt," she went on, words gathering reluctant momentum now the barrier had cracked. "I'll sit with a book or notes in front of me an' none of it sinks in. I read the same words over and over and it's still nonsense."
She laughed faintly, a hollow sound.
"Half the time I can't face food. I'll make summat, manage a couple of bites, an' that's it. Some days I forget altogether." She hesitated, almost ashamed. "Sleep's gone all to cock an' all. Some nights I'm staring at the ceiling till dawn. Others I can't drag mesen out of bed. Alarms, messages... nowt gets through."
Alex's hand moved from her back to her arm, thumb pressing gently, worry he could no longer mask surfacing in his expression.
"An' I'm hardly seeing anyone," she added, voice splintering. "I barely catch up with my friends anymore. I keep putting 'em off, inventin' excuses, sayin' I'm buried when I'm not. I just haven't the strength for it."
She fell silent, breath catching. The car filled with the muted sound of her cryingâquiet, restrained, tears tracing down without spectacle.
Neither spoke for a long stretch.
They both gazed through the windscreen at the city below, lights flickering on one by one in the encroaching dusk, as if ordinary life were resuming without consulting them.
Alex swallowed hard. He stared ahead, jaw tense, mind scrambling.
"Christ," he muttered beneath his breath.
He turned back to her then, urgency creeping into his voice. "Bell... if it's that badâ" He hesitated, then said it anyway, the notion crystallising as he spoke. "I could come down proper. Move to London. Take whatever work I can find. Help you with uni, sort meals, keep things steady. We'd make it bearable. You wouldn't have to carry it alone."
For a moment she only looked at him. Then her face folded. The contained tears gave way to something rawer; her breath fractured as she raised a hand to cover her mouth, shaking her head repeatedly.
"Noâ" she managed, voice thick with distress. "Alex, no. That's notâ"
He leaned closer, earnest, almost pleading. "I mean it. I don't care what it takes. If that's what's neededâ"
She drew her arm away, turning fully towards him now, tears falling unchecked.
"Alex," she said, trembling but resolute, "I don't think you're graspin' what I'm tryin' to tell you."
That halted him. He stopped mid-breath, confusion resurfacing. "What d'you mean?" he asked, very quietly.
She dragged in a ragged breath, steadying herself. Her hands twisted together in her lap, knuckles blanched.
"I don't know how t'stay in this wi' you," she said, voice scarcely holding. "I don't know how t'keep hold of summat that's supposed to feel right when it's slowly hollowin' me out."
Alex stared at her, the words sinking in slowly, each one heavier than the last.
"So... what are you sayin'?" he asked, voice carefully level. "Because it sounds likeâ" He stopped himself short. "No," he said quickly, shaking his head as if he could shake the thought loose. "Hang on. That's not it." He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it. His gaze dropped to her hands, still twisted rigid in her lap, nails digging pale crescents into her palms. "Bells, come on," he murmured, softer, laced with a quiet urgency that tasted like desperation at the back of his throat. "It doesn't have to jump straight there. We don't have to go runnin' to... that."
Arabella drew in a shaky breath, wiping at her cheeks with the heel of her hand as though embarrassed by the evidence. The faint condensation on the window blurred the city lights into smears of amber and sodium yellow, turning Sheffield below into something liquid and unreachable. When she spoke again, her voice was steadierânot because the feeling had eased, but because she was forcing clarity through the wreckage.
"It's not that I don't want you," she said. "And it's not that I don't love you. I do. I really do, Al."
Alex flinched, a subtle contraction of his shoulders, as though the words had brushed a raw place. The wool scratched faintly against his neck, a minor irritation amid the growing constriction in his chest.
"That hasn't changed," she pressed on quickly, afraid he would interrupt. "That's what makes it worse."
She looked down at her hands again, fingers interlacing with a twist that pulled the skin taut. The faint tremor there travelled up her arms, a vibration she could feel in her teeth.
"The distance just... thins everythin' out," she said. "Every goodbye lands heavier than the one before. And I'm already not standin' steady on me own." Alex swallowed, silent. "An' now you've got all this starting for you," she added, her voice catching on the words before she reined it back. "The band. Gigs stackin' up. People noticin'. Things finally movin'." She gave a small, helpless shrug. "I don't want to be the thing that drags you back," she said. "I don't want you stallin' out or twistin' yourself round just because I'm... foundering."
Her voice wavered, but she pushed through. "Sometimes it feels like I'm holdin' you in place without meanin' to. Like I'm loadin' you up when you should be light on your feet. An' I hate it. I hate feelin' like summat you have to work around, a snag in your path."
Alex's laugh broke free thenâshort, jagged, slicing through the car like a snapped string. "Honestly," he said, voice rough at the edges, "I'd almost rather you hated me."
Her words brought back everything he had suppressed: the visits to London where he tried to fix things, the flashbacks to his own previous doubts, when the thought of a first EP began to take shape and he thought that perhaps fame would come, but without her, what was the point?
"At least that'd make a scrap of sense," he continued, quieter but no less taut, words grinding out. "At least then I'd know where I bloody stood. Thisâ" He shook his head, a sharp jerk, frustration boiling under his skin like overheated oil. "This is doin' me head in."
The admission landed harder than intended, raw as an exposed nerve. He turned away the instant it escaped, jaw locking so tight a muscle flickered there, his stare fixed on the indistinct smear of city through the windshield. The dashboard lights cast a pallid green glow across his knuckles, highlighting the tension coiled in his hands clinging to the wheel.
He dragged a hand through his hair, restless.
"Don't sit there tellin' me you love me while you're layin' all this out," he added, swinging back to face her, eyes overbright, strained to breaking. "That's cruel, Bella. I don't know how I'm supposed to take that."
Silence pooled thickly then, broken only by the irregular patter of distant traffic far below, rising like a murmur from the valley. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled, but the words kept surging, spilling over before he could dam them.
"Do me a favour an' don't dress this up like you're doin' it for me own sake," he said, voice climbing a notch before fracturing. "Like it's some noble bloody sacrifice. An' don't pin it on the band. I couldn't give a toss about any of that right this second."
He paused, then corrected himself, quieter but fierce. "Course it matters. I'm graftin' hard for it. But don't act like I'm choosin' that over you. Or like you're sparin' me by walkin' away." Another laugh clawed out, brief and barren. "Christ. I'm not some tragic sod you've got to cut loose for me own good."
She recoiled as if slapped, a sharp intake that pulled fresh tears free, carving hot paths down her chilled cheeks. He registered it instantlyâthe way her shoulders drew inâand regret flooded him, sour and immediate, but the truth hung there now, jagged and unyielding between them, the air turning leaden with its weight.
Silence swelled again. The cold insinuated itself properly through the doors and floorpan, a stealthy chill that raised faint gooseflesh beneath their layers.
"You don't wanna do this," he stated finally. Flat. No question in it.
"I don't know what else t'do."
He fell mute, shoulders rigid as boards, breaths coming unevenâanger not solely at her, but at the vast, indifferent helplessness of it all, the way it rendered him powerless in the one place he thought he held ground.
Arabella looked at him as though seeing him through warped glass. Not angry at firstâjust stunned, wind knocked out of her by the force of it. Before he could backtrack, before he could scrape together some softer version, she reached for the door handle and pushed it open.
The cold rushed in properly this time, raw and unforgiving, carrying the earthy smell of damp moorland drifting down from the Peaks. It whipped across her face, stinging the wet tracks on her cheeks, but she barely felt it. She was out of the car in one abrupt movement, boots crunching on the loose gravel of the lay-by.
"Bellâ" Alex started, panic slicing through the fog in his chest. "Bella, I'm sorry. I didn'tâ"
She shut the door before the sentence finished. Not slammed. Just closed. Firm. Final.
For a heartbeat he sat frozen, convinced she was about to walk off down the hill and disappear into the night, and that he would simply sit there and let it happen. But she stayed beside the car, arms wrapped tight around her ribs, shoulders heaving now that no one was watching.
Her breath hitched. The wind tugged at loose strands of her hair, whipping them across her face, and she didn't bother pushing them back. The sobs broke free thenâquiet at first, then louder, rawer, the kind that scraped the throat and left it burning.
Alex sagged back against his seat, dragging a hand hard across his face.
He stared straight ahead, jaw locked, chest constricted. He had pushed too far. He knew it. He had said the worst thing in the worst way because he could not bear to beg. His hands gripped the steering wheel until the knuckles blanched. His breathing came shallow, not quite reaching his lungs. He blinked hard, once, then again.
Outside, Arabella had folded forward slightly. The sobs shook her whole frame now, no longer muffled, carried away on the wind that swept over the hill and down towards the city lights flickering far below. Alex closed his eyes for a second. He pictured just sitting there. Giving her space. Letting himself fall apart in private where she wouldn't have to see it. But the thought of her out there alone, crying into the dark after what he'd just thrown at her, was unbearable.
He opened the door. The cold hit him full force as he stepped out, sharp enough to steal the breath for a moment. He did not call her name. Did not try to explain. He simply walked round the bonnet, the car headlights blinding his peripheral vision momentarily, and wrapped his arms around her.
Arabella startledâa sharp, involuntary gaspâthen crumpled back into him, fists bunching the front of his coat like it was the only thing stopping her from folding to the ground. The weeps came fully now, loud and messy, no holding back. Her whole body shook with them, face buried against his chest, breath hot and wet through the fabric.
Alex held her tight, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading gently into her hair, the other locked firm across her back. He pressed his face into the top of her head, eyes squeezed shut, the faint scent of her vanilla shampoo, mixing with the cold night air
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words muffled against her, useless and necessary at once. "I'm so sorry, Bells."
His own breath hitched, chest tightening painfully. Throat burned. A couple of tears slipped free despite everything, hot against the chill, vanishing into her hair as he held on harder.
"We could try summat else," he said, voice low and scraped raw, almost lost in the wind. "Shift things round. Make it work somehow."
She didn't answer straight away. Just clung tighter, sniffling easing gradually into shaky breaths. "Stop tryin' to fix it," she said finally, buried against his coat. Not angry. Just bone-tired. Done.
And that quiet, absolute weariness hit him harder than any shout could have. The knowledge that she'd been carrying this alone for weeksâmonths maybeâturning it over in the dark until it had worn her smooth.
Alex loosened his hold and stepped back first, slow, careful, as though sudden movement might cause further harm. He leaned a shoulder against the cold metal of the car and stood there a moment, staring at Arabella. The wind caught her hair again, whipping it across her face; he brushed it away with cold fingers. Her cheeks were blotched red, eyes swollen, nose running. She looked about sixteen, and it gutted him.
The realisation arrived without drama. It simply settledâheavy, irrevocable. No more clever words. No plans. No way to patch this with a joke or a kiss or a promise. Just the ache behind his ribs and the knowledge that loving her more fiercely, if that were even possible, would not hold this together.
Arabella stayed a couple of steps off, arms wrapped round herself again. Her face felt raw, skin tight from cold and crying. The taste of salt and snot coated the back of her throat. She hated herself for itâhated standing here on this hill pulling the heart out of both of them just so she could keep breathing.
Part of her wishedâsharp and viciousâthat they'd never started. That none of it had happened. Because then she wouldn't be here, doing this.
If they hadn't been this, she wouldn't have to be doing this.
Alex rubbed the heel of his hand across his mouth, lips pressed into a fine line, eyes dry now but red-rimmed. Crying felt pointless all of a sudden. He straightened slightly, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Come on," he said quietly. "I'll take you home."
Arabella shook her head almost immediately, the motion small but definite. "It's alright. I'll ring my mam. She'll come get me." Something flared in his chestâpanic, or stupid prideâbut it guttered quickly.
"No," he said, gentler. "I'll take you. It's fine." She looked at him a second, then nodded once. Too fragile to argue. Too empty to care how she got from here to there. They climbed back in without another word. The doors shut with two soft thuds, sealing the cold out and the silence back in.
The drive back down the hill towards High Green passed in a slow, grinding blur. The heater hummed uselessly, pushing out lukewarm air that did nothing against the cold that had settled deep in their bones. Streetlights streaked past in dull orange smears, the roads near-empty this time of night, just the occasional taxi or late-shift van hissing through puddles left from earlier rain. Neither of them turned the radio on. The only sounds were the engine's low thrum, the faint click of the indicator when Alex signalled out of habit, and the occasional catch of breath that neither acknowledged.
Arabella sat with her head tipped lightly against the passenger window, the glass cool and slick with condensation where her breath fogged it. She watched the familiar streets slide by without really seeing themâthe same terraces she'd grown up between, the same chippy with its flickering sign, the same bus shelter daubed with fresh graffiti. Everything looked smaller somehow, flattened, as though the city had shrunk while she'd been away in London.
Alex drove with both hands tight on the wheel, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed straight ahead. His jaw hadn't unclenched since the hill. Every so often he swallowed hard, like there was something lodged in his throat he couldn't shift.
When he pulled up outside her house, the engine kept running a beat too long. The street was quiet, curtains drawn in most windows, just the barely-there glow of a telly flickering behind nets next door. He killed the ignition, and the sudden silence rushed in heavy, pressing against the windows.
She didn't move straight away.
The dashboard clock ticked over. 23:47. The heater fan wound down with a dying wheeze. Arabella's seatbelt clicked as she finally reached for it, the sound sharp in the hush. She paused with her hand on the door handle, staring at it like she didn't quite recognise it.
Alex forced a small, awkward smileâthe kind you give when you're trying to make something awful feel normal for five more seconds. Something to say it's alright, you're not a monster, this doesn't have to end uglier than it already is.
Her face was set, eyes puffy, all red, her lips swollen from crying. She looked already somewhere elseâalready inside the house, already bracing for the moment the door shut behind her.
Arabella opened the door. Cold air flooded in again, sharp with the smell of wet tarmac and distant coal fires. She paused just long enough to mutter, "Ta," without looking at him, then stepped out and closed the door quietly behind her.
Alex nodded to the empty passenger seat, though she didn't see it.
Alex swallowed again. His hand lifted half an inch towards the window button, a stupid impulse flaringâsay something daft, anything. Let her know her shoe were untie. Pretend for one more breath that this was just another night dropping her off.
He let it drop back into his lap.
Don't drag it out, you prick.
She stood on the pavement for half a second, arms wrapped round herself, then turned and walked up the short path. Her steps were quick, deliberate, like if she slowed she might not make it to the door. The porch light flicked on automatically as she reached itâharsh yellow bulb. She fumbled keys for a moment then disappeared inside.
The door shut. The light stayed on a few seconds longer, then clicked off.
Alex sat there a bit longer, hands still on the wheel, staring at the empty space where she'd been. The engine ticked as it cooled.
Once he felt ready, he drove off slowly, the car rolling down the street like it didn't want to leave either, indicating, even though there was no one to see. At the end of the road he turned left, headlights sweeping across sleeping houses, and only then did the blur hit, the streetlights smearing into soft halos.
"Shite," he muttered, voice cracking on the word.
He blinked hard, once, twice. Tears came hot and sudden, pooling fast until the road ahead warped. He pulled over sharpish onto the kerb opposite the street, tyres crunching on grit, engine still running.
He leaned forward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, one arm over the wheel to hold himself down. The first sob tore out before he could stop itâharsh, ugly, humiliating. His shoulders shook as he folded in on himself, the sound swallowed by the small space of the car. He bit down on his lips, trying to keep it quiet, to hold onto whatever composure he'd managed to fake all evening.
It didn't work. He cried properly thenâmessy, breathless, the kind that left his chest aching and his head spinning. All the things he'd kept locked down finally clawed their way out now that there was no one left to see him fall apart.
"Fuck," he gasped between sobs, over and over, like saying it might explain something. Like it might make it stop hurting.
After a whileâminutes, maybe moreâthe storm eased. Breathing evened out, shaky but slower. He wiped his face rough with his sleeve, sniffed hard, stared blankly through the windscreen until the street came back into focus. The dashboard clock read 00:02.
He straightened, rubbed his eyes again, and pulled back onto the road. Home was waiting somewhere, though the word felt hollow now. He drove on slow, windows fogged, the city quiet around him.
Back at her place, the front door clicked shut like a full stop. The secret door swung behind Arabella, leaving on the other side the world that had been hers for two years, as if it were a place she'd only wandered through for a while but couldn't stay in.