The train rattled, a familiar rhythm I usually found soothing, but today it only amplified the frantic beat of my heart. Through the window, the rows of houses blurred into an indistinguishable streak, much like the last year of my life. I clutched my phone, scrolling through Kitty’s Instagram, a desperate attempt to distract myself from the growing knot of anxiety in my stomach.

Her feed was a vibrant collage of smiles and shared moments: Kitty, surrounded by the same six friends, laughing in pubs, cycling in Richmond Park, even skiing in France. They looked like a family, a tight-knit unit woven into the fabric of a little London bookstore called Brew Books. And I, Jane, craved that, ached for it with an intensity that surprised even myself.

Finally, I gathered the courage to send the message: "Hey you! Long time no see! I'm in London for the day. Fancy a coffee?"

I forced my gaze back to the streaking landscape, counting houses until my phone vibrated. Kitty’s reply was immediate, a splash of cold water: "Jane!! It's really not a good time right now - working all day! So sorry!" My throat constricted. Of course. What had I expected? The train pulled into London Victoria, and I felt like a complete idiot.