In that hole, women like me are forced to remain silent in fear of libel, and nothing ever changes. It had me thinking: Should we be able to call out questionable medical advice, especially when it’s dished out by a limited company?

When I was told that pregnancy was a good treatment for my symptoms, my jaw hit her (yes, her!) desk like a cartoon character. Surely pregnancy is not a treatment. It isn’t an intervention like medicine, exercise or a diet as advised by a professional. It’s just… me getting pregnant. And because of my symptoms, it was the last thing on my list of things to do with my life. In addition to debilitating pelvic pain, I was struggling with depression, intrusive thoughts and extreme irritability. I felt so down, I hid myself away. I couldn’t stand to be around people, let alone make babies.

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I had initially approached her as I thought I had PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder) and asked to be assessed. Like any millennial, I’d researched my symptoms online and quickly saw how tightly they lined up with my menstrual cycle. I’d quit the pill at 34, hoping to embrace my natural cycles and fix the random spotting and heavy bleeds I’d been getting on the combined pill.

Tracking with an app, I learned the ten-or-so days before my period fall within the luteal phase. Also known as HELL WEEK in my house. No one taught me at school about cycles – that oestrogen declines, and progesterone rises before menstruation, preparing for a clear-out when no egg is fertilised. During this phase, my thoughts ran wild: change jobs, sell the house, end the relationship, move into a campervan.

On top of the inner turmoil, I had restless legs, migraines, brain fog, heart palpitations, extreme cramps. Then the minute my period arrived I’d feel better and promptly forget last week’s chaos. But I still had to rebuild my life, gain back my partner’s trust and catch up on a week's worth of work. After my period, in the follicular phase, I felt invincible, productive, sociable and sexy. I called her my normal self. Then I would feel the inevitable twinge in my abdomen (hello, ovulation!) and the restlessness crept back in.

None of this sounds like a solid foundation for pregnancy and the arrival of an actual human being. Because guess what? After breastfeeding, your cycles return.

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Having suggested PMDD, I was offered an IUD, a chemical menopause or, if that failed, a rather drastic hysterectomy. Then came: 'Have you thought about having babies? It’s about time.' I explained my situation: busy career, fear of pregnancy and birth, and a partner (already a dad to a teenager) with zero inclination to start again. It was effectively ruled out.

Yet, my follow-up letter still said pregnancy was a good treatment. I don’t believe pregnancy should ever be considered a treatment. It involves a second party, creates a whole new person and costs a lot of money. So why are people being told to just get pregnant?

Old ideas die hard, especially when no one is held accountable. Pregnancy as a cure dates back to antiquity and early gynaecology, when it was framed as a “reset” for women’s health. Doctors would even induce a state of “pseudopregnancy” with high levels of hormones to reproduce the improvement noted in endometriosis during pregnancy. A quick look at modern day guidance on PMDD makes it clear: evidence-based treatments include SSRIs, certain hormonal contraceptives, CBT and GnRH analogues or surgery as a last resort. Pregnancy is not recommended for either Endometriosis or PMDD.

Yes, some resources note that PMS symptoms disappear during pregnancy, but when prescribing pregnancy, consultants ignore what happens after birth. People with PMDD or severe PMS appear to be at higher risk of depression during or after pregnancy, which makes “just get pregnant” a dangerously glib suggestion.

A complaint to the hospital led nowhere. The complaints manager sounded overworked, perhaps juggling negligence cases involving wrongly amputated legs. I left the call feeling a bit ridiculous for even reaching out.

Fast forward 2 years, I took to Reddit to see if others had receipts of pregnancy as treatment in the shape of actual letters. I was hoping to use images for a potential art project tied to my PhD. Then Reddit removed the post a day later because the picture of my letter included the gynaecologist’s name. I’d assumed it was fine with she-who-shan’t-be-named operating as a limited company, but I was warned about defamation. Which raises a question: If we can’t publicly hold healthcare providers to account, how does anything change? If you can take to Twitter to complain about your Jet2 holiday, then why can’t you complain about dodgy medical advice? And at £225-a-pop I felt cheated.

So, to keep the solicitors calm, I’ve stripped out names and blurred any identifying details. What remains are the ghosts of Victorian gynaecology, immortalised in this neatly typed letter. If you have your own just get pregnant receipts, letters or clinic notes, get in touch. In the meantime, I’ll be a good girl and go back into my hole. For now.

Lately, my hearing’s gone strange. I catch the faintest scrape of your mouse across the desk, each movement grating like nails on chalkboard. You are wearing a headset with a mic, but still, I can hear your colleagues as if they’ve taken up residence. Under your command, they move through the walls, scrambling down the pipes and pace the floorboards to eliminate terrorists. The stomping of feet builds with the urgency of your mission. I close my eyes, focusing on the noise, unsure if I’m conjuring it up, simply because nothing else happens to me these days. You have your hostages, your teammates, your headshots. I have PMDD.

I open the front door to golden light and the soft murmur of drunken voices and birdsong. It’s June 2020, and the weather’s been glorious for most of spring. The road is quiet as if time has paused. No cars pass, no one needs to be anywhere. On this Friday evening, everyone on the terrace sits on their front steps, glasses of wine raised to the sunshine. I join my next-door neighbours briefly for a chat and a drink, each of us keeping to our own porch.

‘You alone?’ my neighbour asks.

I nod toward the attic. ‘He’s still at work.’

She glances at her watch, then hands me a bowl of nuts, keeping her distance as we laugh at the fumbling exchange.

I pour myself another glass of wine. Sunshine does that to me. These days I just want to drink. With no real routine now we work from home, we find ourselves shaking Long Island Iced Teas on a Tuesday night.

By seven, I’m still alone on the step, the sun lingering above the hills. I head inside. It feels dark and dingy. The wine has warmed me from the inside out. The low buzz of the fridge rises in pitch until the room spins. What felt pleasant an hour ago, now feels like it’s smothering me.

When I feel low, she finds her voice. It’s a sunny Friday night, yet you’re cooped up inside.

Limbs twitchy, skin stretched tight, like I might erupt. I need to be in the open air, soaking up the last of the sun in one of the newly opened beer gardens, surrounded by people. Instead, I’m here alone, trapped in my living room as the air thickens and the walls close in. The smell of stale food wafts from the bin. It hasn’t been emptied in days.

Upstairs, the crack of gunfire.

I peer into the fridge. Its sparse contents are overwhelming. My stomach growls, but a deeper ache twists in my lower abdomen. Something is clawing its way out.

And so, she makes herself known, physically now. First, as a heat rising from my pelvis to my face, radiating to my fingertips, making them tingle. I’ve drunk most of the bottle on an empty stomach. Not a wise move at the best of times, let alone on Cycle Day 23. With each aching wave, the anger simmers, hot and uncontrollable, as if she’s stoking a fire beneath my skin. Her clammy hand settles on the back of my neck, demanding attention. I grip the cool surface of the kitchen worktop and breathe.

You come down half an hour later, and she retreats to a dark corner. Over the rim of my glass, I watch you move around the kitchen and living room, as if searching for something. We exchange pleasantries about our workdays. You sit down, then get back up to open the fridge. Finding it empty, you resume pottering around the kitchen table.

The ball is in my court.

'Have you had a drink of water at all today?'

I bite my lip. You nod and rearrange the objects on the kitchen side and start unloading the dishwasher. I break the silence and suggest a beer in what’s left of the sun at our local pub. ‘It is Friday, after all.’

‘We can pick up some food afterwards,’ I add, already exhausted.

The laughter in the beer garden fades into the background, and we toast to the weekend. The sun has dipped behind the hills and a breeze picks up. You talk about the game, your voice rising with excitement as you list the benefits of recent updates. I nod, distantly aware of the forced smile being pulled into place by invisible fishhooks. I feel myself drifting, as though I’m watching the scene unfold from a distance.

There I am, holding a pint and sitting pretty in a full face of make-up. The mask of foundation and powder cracking, cheeks red hot. You sit opposite, talking to me but looking past me, gesturing at no one. I’m staring at your face, your mouth moving, but your voice is drowned out by whispers and a high-pitched buzzing.

Why does he still have his sunglasses on?

I shift forward in my seat and gently pull them off. You frown and quietly rub your reddened eyes. I smile at the bar staff collecting our empties and focus on the panting husky at the next table. You continue with your story, eyes searching for mine. They’re a pale shade of green and a little close together, which I usually find disarming. I study your lips, the way you tilt your head back when you laugh, so open and infectious. The blonde hairs on your cheeks endearing. We could be happy together, planning our future while hiking through mountains.

Then it happens: a peristaltic tightening at my throat, pressing against words left unsaid. I flinch, one hand twitching towards my neck. The skin burns.

‘Who were you playing with tonight?’ I ask, trying my hardest to keep her at bay.

I’ve been sketching a future, drawing a dream, projecting it onto the man in front of me like tracing paper.

Face blank as you rattle off their names: Tom, Reuben, Mark, Zahir, Jasper… Ant and Dec. Who cares? The mechanical buzz is back.

‘They’re probably all still playing,’ you laugh.

‘Is that what you would like to be doing, on a sunny evening? Play games in a stuffy attic?’

My elbows slam onto the table. The words are out before I’ve fully registered them, hanging between us. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’ve actually spoken, or if it’s just another echo in my head.

You look up in surprise, your brows quickly furrowing. A flicker of satisfaction runs through me, having gained your full attention.

‘I need to be around people,’ I say, straightening the menus on the table. ‘I’m bored working from home.’

‘I’m wiped, come Friday.’ You glance at the couple behind us.

‘Yet, you’re happy to log on for hours.’

‘We were just blowing off some steam.’

My jaw tightens. When resentment festers, she strikes. Feeding off it, growing stronger, until there’s nothing left of me but her.

‘Should you even be doing this during working hours?’ I continue, unable to let go.

‘Why can’t I just have fun with my friends?’

I’ve hit a nerve. He shrugs, studying his fingernails. He looks hurt and I just want to hug him, but we are in too deep.

We are so utterly broken. Might as well kick it all to the curb. Set fire to it. Burn it all to the ground. It’s all fucked and there is no turning back. I don’t even resist anymore. I’m going to dismember our relationship and chuck the pieces into the canal. Have done with it.

‘When did it all go so wrong for us?’ I shout.

I may have lost control of my free will, but at the same time I thrive on her power. She lifts the veil, forcing attention on what’s been unseen. And I relish the intoxicating feeling of finally being heard, even if it’s through destruction.

We finish our drinks in silence and head back up the hill, unable to let go of the painful conversation. Heading straight back home feels like failure.

‘Why don’t we ever have any plans?’ I persist.

‘We don’t always need plans. I’m happy just going with the flow.’

‘You might be, I say, my voice tightening, ‘but I’m always the one who has to make something happen. It’s exhausting.’

We stride down the busy high street, shouting over each other beneath strings of festoon lights that glow above outdoor tables. People glance up from their drinks, unsure what to make of us. Me: six feet tall, face full of makeup, flushed and overheating, teeth clenched. Him: shorter, younger, still wearing sunglasses, pacing ahead like he can outrun the scene.

‘But I can’t relax when I always have to decide on what to eat.’

‘It always works out. I really don’t see the problem.’

‘It works out because I’m the one keeping it together.’

Unable to sleep, I scour social media to distract myself. Instagram has been bombarding me with makeup tutorials lately, and I’m almost convinced I can erase my discontent with the latest full-coverage foundation. I end up buying the retinol under-eye cream that’s been popping up for a while now.

A week from my period, I can’t stop scrolling, even though I know it’s doing something to my brain. My feed is full of plastic surgery techniques: forehead reduction in Turkey, needle-free lip fillers, something for my upper eyelids I can’t pronounce. I know I should put the phone down, read a book, rest. But I can’t. The compulsion to stay plugged in – to this moment, this feed, this flickering now – has its grip on me. What do people want now? Why don’t you want anything? What do I want?

I just want to rest, but it feels impossible to get there.

At night, when the room is at its darkest, she materialises by playing with my limbs. Her energy is stronger when the clock strikes four. My legs begin to vibrate, as if a current is running through my muscle fibres. It spreads slowly. A subtle tingling that crawls upward. An ache settles in my groin, as if my hip bones no longer fit in their sockets. I feel an overwhelming urge to contort myself into unnatural shapes. My joints crack under the pressure of her demands.

Then she gets to work on my memories: rewriting, distorting, replacing facts with doubt. Did I push too hard? Was I always the problem? Her voice coils through me, soft and reasonable, telling me I’ve misunderstood everything. That I have done life wrong. She reshapes the past to strengthen her grip, until I can’t remember who I am and what’s true. Until I question whether I ever could.

And then: blood. And with it: relief. It oozes out of me, thick as tar, clotted and dark red – a bitter offering that buys me silence. She retreats. The static fades. The current dies down. I am myself again, but only just. I know she’ll come back. She always does.

As a self-proclaimed ladies' man, you spot her immediately: silvery blonde hair framing her round face, cute gappy teeth. She looks in your direction and you notice her big brown eyes, like your first girlfriend had.

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‘Check out the hot redhead to your left,’ I overhear your friend Ryan say. He elbows you in the ribs and nods in her direction.

You glance towards the high table with the hot blonde and blink your eyes.

‘Who do you mean?’

‘Her. In the yellow dress,’ Ryan says, already distracted, trying to round up the group's drinks order.

From her quiet corner, the girl in the yellow dress keeps glancing at you, making your cheeks flush slightly. I can feel your heart pounding.

You pride yourself on being the smoothest talker, but you know you are the least impressive of the group: small, with a receding hairline. You're uncomfortably aware of your sweaty palms and the white stains collecting at your armpits with even the slightest physical effort.

And yet, she keeps looking at you.

What does she want?

You look away, focusing instead on the kerfuffle at the bar as Ryan tries to carry four pints by grabbing their rims, his fingers dipping into the frothy heads.

You feel her eyes still on you and swallow hard against the obstruction building in your throat. I know you are easily intimidated by women who are out on their own, especially when they display cleavage and legs so confidently. If you are honest, you actually prefer more modest dresses. The lace front of her bodice makes you uncomfortable. You wouldn’t know where to look.

‘Here you go, mate,’ Ryan says, handing you a pint. He kisses you on your balding head after punching your arm.

You drink deeply, gathering yourself, and glance back at the girl. You find yourself moving towards her, as if drawn by an invisible force.

She really is stunning, wearing a black pencil skirt, tights, and an Arctic Monkeys shirt. Your favourite band. Her blonde hair is twisted into a messy bun.

‘And who are you?’ you say, flashing a cheesy smile.

‘I'll be whoever you want me to be,’ she replies. Somehow, she reminds you of your mother.

Your friend Paul walks through the glass double doors, arms spread wide.

‘Guys!’ he shouts, doing a little dance. The group cheers, ‘There he is!’

But instead of joining the group, Paul walks straight to you and the girl. He ignores you and pulls her in for a hug.

‘Nikki, you said you'd be out with the girls,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek. ‘What are you doing here alone. You need some money?’

You frown at Paul. Is he already so drunk he mistakes his Nikki, a black girl, for this random lass? But Paul seems ecstatic and kisses her on the mouth.

‘You can't get enough of me,’ he chuckles, then walks off to join his mates.

You scoff awkwardly and glance at Ryan for support.

‘What is Paul playing at?’ you utter, agitated now.

No one answers. Everyone is too busy shotting tequila

.

I’ve been getting into murder podcasts lately. They help me focus as I rework a map from a previous title, expanding it into a more detailed environment for the new game. Millions of fans are waiting, and the world we’re building stretches further than it ever has before. Through large Sennheiser headphones, I’m thrust into the worlds of Charles Manson, the Boston Strangler, and the Night Stalker. On my screen, the sun blazes down from stark blue skies over a desert near the Mexican border. I’m painting the warm adobe walls of a bandit hideout, adding patches of dirt and wear to expose the stone structure beneath.

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It’s a world of smoke and mirrors, built from polygons and pixels. Yet I get so immersed I lose all sense of my body. I’m an architect, a painter and decorator, a gardener and a set dresser, shaping a vision of early 20th-century America. I’m the weather: I turn pine wood orange in the sun, chip at plaster, streak façades with mud and grow weeds between paving slabs. I fly from north to south, east to west, building streets, shops, and churches. My hands are glued to a PlayStation 4 controller and my eyes melt into the screen.

I feel a tickle on my shoulder and flinch, nearly knocking my drink over and smacking my would-be assailant. It’s my Art Lead, stopping by for a catch-up with a steaming mug of coffee and that ever-present smile. He’s been trying to get my attention for a while, but I’ve been wrapped up in a shower curtain and buried in the desert. It takes a moment to come back to the real world and shake off the atrocities of the Toy-Box Killers.

I peel off my headphones and drape them over their stand, hitting into my trinkets with hands that don’t quite feel like mine. I update him on the work I’ve been doing, voice gravelly from the dry air and not speaking all day. He tells me I’m lucky to be entrusted with this task. It'll bring good visibility within the company. I love my job as a 3D artist, but the work is beginning to seep into places it shouldn’t.

I stretch out, wander to the break-out room where I can see the outside world. The real skies are not unlike those in the game. We’re in a heatwave, and the aircon struggles to keep up with the rising temperatures of the early afternoon. The standard-issue system is no match for the heat pumped out by our high-spec computers and development kits. A unit rattles overhead as it works overtime to blast cool air into our space.

Time for another coffee.

My Facebook wall is full of evidence that life is happening elsewhere. My auntie, back home, is on the beach. She lives ten minutes from a trendy seaside resort, and I’m stuck on an industrial estate in Leeds. An old schoolfriend is heading to Bali to study yoga. An ex-colleague is gearing up for Burning Man. He got out before another round of crunch and now seems to be living.

A wordy email lands in our inbox with chirpy ding. We all knew it was coming. Everyone on the Art Floor reads it at once. The studio goes quiet. Eyes stay fixed on monitors, gazing through the screens. I see only blank expressions, slumped shoulders, unkempt facial hair and dry lips.

The email sounds friendly, even speculative, but the message is clear: you’re coming in this weekend. There’s a milestone approaching. Please make sure all outstanding tasks are completed. All food and transport are covered. Just keep the receipts.

The fluorescent lighting seems harsher now. The letters on my screen begin to shimmer, then blur. My body is still at the desk, typing, checking in to see what others make of the news, but my soul has floated to the far corner of the room. She’s hiding behind a barricade of empty computer boxes in the discarded furniture section, tucked into a makeshift pillow fort made of sofa cushions. From there, she looks out of the only window without frosted film.

My surroundings dissolve into the soft clatter of keyboards, the drag of mice on plastic woodgrain. The air is thick with the stale tang of last night’s pizza boxes and the dull scent of tired humans. People moan, but no one pushes back. There’s comfort in the rhythm of it all, and eventually, the pay will make it all seem worth it. We are living the dream, aren’t we?

Life outside moves on without us, as our bodies quietly fade into the synthetic fibres of our workplace.

My eyes find yours, peeking out from above your monitor, quick and magnetic. They’re the only thing offering something solid to hold onto. You blink rapidly. I know that look: you’re tired. I want to disappear into those pale green eyes beneath your cheeky curved brows. You always look like you’ve just climbed out of a swimming pool – eyes slightly red, long lashes clumped. I want to wrap myself around you like a towel. You notice me and your gaze goes soft.

At least I get to spend the weekend near you. I’ll try to stay as close as possible, caught in the bubble of your clean scent. Your shampoo and laundry detergent smell both alien and oddly familiar to me. I'll brush my arm against the fine blond hairs on yours. The thick veins on your lower arms trace the only path I want to follow.

In my mind, I float out of the building, across the car park, over one of Leeds’ busiest arterial roads, towards a patch of grass beside a Greggs. A helicopter once landed there and a businessman popped out to buy sandwiches. The roundabout opposite was the scene of a dramatic crash involving our colleague after a Friday afternoon in the pub.

Our patch of grass is just a scrap of green in a concrete wasteland, but right now it feels like the closest thing to freedom. It may be scorched yellow and uneven, littered with crushed cans and crisp packets, but wildflowers still push through. Subversive flashes of purple against the grey.

I picture myself stretched out, you beside me, our fingers laced together. Faces tilted to the sun, soaking up the warmth as I quietly plot our escape.

You shake your head and continue looking for your wallet. She follows you into the kitchen.

‘Okay. Okay, look. It’s not a big deal. We'll just do it tomorrow.'

You mumble something about timing, about how everything’s always fine until you’re running late.

She steps closer, but you cross your arms and look around the room.

'Have you seen my wallet?'

Then she sighs and says it again, more quietly: ‘I just feel unheard.’

‘You’re being too sensitive,’ you reply instinctively.

She goes mute, wearing that face that you hate. The big, sad eyes stir something uncomfortable inside you, something you'd rather not examine. The deep crease forming between her brows unsettles you. You want to smooth it away, make her smile again, but you know you can’t fix this. Not now. Something starts to crawl under your skin, though you're unsure why.

You watch as she walks down the street, hips swaying in that skirt you like so much. Her shoulders hunch slightly as she quickens her pace on the uneven cobbles, ankles wobbling in high heels. You shout something light-hearted, but she doesn't look back. A heaviness settles in your chest, as though something precious has slipped from your pocket into the gutter. You get into the car and smack the door closed.

You’d planned to travel to work together, but she ruined it by bringing up emotional labour again.

At lunchtime, you send her a link to a funny video. She doesn’t reply.

That evening, she arrives home later than usual and tosses her satchel onto the settee. She pulls off her hoodie as she gives you a hurried kiss on the cheek, heading straight to the fridge.

‘Absolute waste of a day,’ she grumbles, taking a swig from the milk bottle. ‘Lizzy from HR’s been on one again.’

Milk collects at the corners of her mouth, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. Standing in front of the fridge, she stares blankly at the empty shelves. You stand in the doorway, oddly hollow, not knowing what to say.

She unbuttons her jeans, jogs upstairs. You hear the toilet flush, splashing water, the clatter of toiletries falling onto tiles. She reappears shortly after, in grey sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, settling into the armchair, flicking between TV channels and her phone. You quietly cook your usual quick meal, pasta and canned tuna. She must be tired.

‘I’m off to bed,’ she announces abruptly. You tell her you'll join her later, once you've finished the report that is due tomorrow.

‘Are you coming?’ she calls down impatiently. When you enter the bedroom, she’s sitting fully clothed beneath the harsh overhead light, smiling at something on her phone.

‘Shall we get ready then?’ you prompt, ‘Busy day tomorrow.’

You sit beside her, removing your shirt. Only then does she turn to you, her mouth stretching into an unfamiliar grin. She’s on top of you, her movements like the flick of a jackknife. She grabs at your chest with surprising force. Her body is everywhere –thighs cinched around your torso, squeezing the air from your lungs. Her kisses are too much: wet, insistent, all teeth and pressure. Saliva smears your chin. Her cheek, coarse against yours, leaves a sting behind.

She squeezes your crotch and sighs: ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You are being... too much.’

‘Ok, no worries,’ she shrugs, rolling off you.

Minutes later, her breathing settles into quiet snores. You lie awake, puzzled by her skipping her meticulous bedtime routine. Eventually, sleep takes you, pulling you into uneasy dreams.

You're in a white corridor, lined with doors that shimmer into mirrors as you approach. Each reflection shows her just ahead, walking with purpose, her face obscured. You call out, but your voice is muffled, like you are shouting behind glass. At the corridor’s end, there's one final mirror. She turns, slowly. It's your face staring back. Then the glass ripples, and she's gone – leaving you alone with the warped echoes of yourself.

In the morning, her voice wakes you abruptly: ‘Don’t forget Nikki and Paul tonight.’

You blink groggily, trying to catch your breath.

‘Could you grab some groceries? I won’t have time.’

You drag yourself downstairs, slamming cupboards open, scanning the sparse contents, making mental lists.

She comes down dressed already, buttoning the cuffs of your shirt – the one you wear for presentations. You freeze.

She strides to the coffee machine. She is all angles and hard edges; her elbow clips your ribs as she reaches for the beans. She doesn’t look at you, just moves past, clean and mechanical. All the softness gone.

‘I’ll take the car,’ she says curtly, her voice oddly deeper.

'Do you know where the keys are?'

'Do you mind?’ Your voice comes out unsteady. ‘Why are you being like this?’

'Like what?' she scoffs, rifling through your bag without looking at you.

Then she peers up with a raised eyebrow.

‘You know, you really are too sensitive.’

Dust particles drift in the beam of light. A free day, for us, to do what we want. My cramping muscles crave movement. The air holds a feeling of promise. But on Cycle Day 24, my skin doesn’t fit properly, and my skeleton itches to break free.

You lie in slumber, peaceful beneath your thick eyelashes, fabric headphones still clamped to your head. They have been helping you sleep. It’s gone ten; you must have needed the extra hours. Against my better judgement, I reach for my phone.

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Group chats are full of photos of breakfast spreads, fresh croissants, chocolate eggs and glasses of orange juice. I mentally scan the contents of our cupboards: we’re out of bread. I flick onto Instagram. My feed is filled with immaculately laid tables and glossy pastries. The local baker (shout-out to Mother in Hebden Bridge) is open for the holiday, proudly posting their hot cross buns. Everyone is having Easter fun, and I’m still in bed.

You wake, and I’m a little too eager suggesting a pastry run. Your face shifts from sleepiness to a frown.

‘Ok, you go.’

‘How about you go, and I clean the kitchen?’

We’d left yesterday’s leftovers scattered across the surfaces after a few too many drinks.

‘Ok, I’ll take the dog,’ you sigh, heading for the bathroom.

I drag my aching body down the stairs and start stuffing the dishwasher. Yesterday’s roast chicken carcass sits in a puddle of congealed fat, the worktop is streaked with dried Yorkshire pudding batter.

Upstairs, hurried footsteps thud across the floorboards, and something clatters over. I clear the plates, cramming scraps into an already overflowing bin bag.

You dash into the kitchen, make a quick coffee to go, then rush back to the bedroom. Your footsteps pound the wooden stairs, doors slam and rattle. Then you come hurtling back down, two steps at a time. You’re already wearing sunglasses, coffee clutched in one hand, coaxing the dog into her collar with the other.

‘Could I please have a ham croissant? And a cinnamon roll?’

‘Oh. Ok.’

I know I’m fragile this week, more sensitive than usual, but you seem to bristle at my request. Am I being difficult? I scrub stubborn potato crusts from the baking tray, a tight ball forming in my chest. I must tread carefully.

‘Have you seen my headphones?’ you call, rummaging through a cluttered pile on the kitchen table. ‘The Sony ones?’ Louder now.

It takes a second for my brain to catch up. You’re only walking down the road, yet here you are dithering over headphones and takeaway coffee like you’re embarking on some epic journey.

‘I can see you rolling your eyes, you know.’

‘From the back of my head?’ I turn on my heels, shooting daggers.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me after making all these requests.’ You let out a forced, scolding laugh.

‘I didn’t roll my eyes,’ I shout – I did. ‘And why do you need headphones for a five-minute walk? They’re going to sell out if you don’t leave now.’

‘I thought we were going running. Why do you want pastries now anyway?’

‘Because it’s Easter and I thought it would be nice.’

I chuck a plate into the filthy dishwater. We can never seem to have nice weekends.

You leave without saying goodbye.

After that, the day went from bad to worse. A walk in the sunshine made me believe we had turned things around, only for us to start a new argument about home improvements. I am always poo-pooing your proposals. You are always telling me off. I have a sharp tongue, and I often bring up things said in confidence, throwing them back at you. You slam the doors.

Either way, it ends with me crying, and a quiet yet oppressive energy hanging around you, which I call the ‘silent treatment’. You insist it is not that, that you are just sad and do not know what to say. But sitting there in silence still feels like a punishment. So when you head off to town and I stay at home, in pieces, I write you a letter. Really, it is a letter for me (I never give it to you), to make sense of my life, and for anyone else who might find it useful.

‘I feel uncomfortable always making decisions. Where to go, what to do, what to eat,’ I say, my words carried off by the wind.

‘That’s not fair. I come up with plenty of plans,’ you react, shoulders tensing.

‘I suggested this trip, and every morning, you leave it to me to decide where we’re off next.’

‘Because you always seem to have something worked out already.’

You stride ahead, canvas sneakers saturated by the boggy ground. I quicken my pace, conscious of the storm gathering over the hills.

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Like the seagulls' urgent swooping, I've been rushing around lately, desperate to soak in as many natural wonders as possible. Months trapped in an office have left me disconnected from nature, from beauty itself. Magic and stories have been calling me back to wonder. The Old Man of Stoer glimmered in my imagination ever since meeting him in our guidebook. The Nordic giant frozen in stone, destined to stand in the sea forever, beckoned me. I'm in need of a strong man, someone won’t crumble under pressure.

‘Can we just talk?’ I blurt out. ‘I have been feeling unheard lately.’

‘That’s such an overreaction,’ you snap. ‘Why bring that up now, while we're trying to have a holiday?’

‘Because I want things to be better for us.’

A shouting match by the sea, in a spot meant to be enjoyed. Our voices are no match for the waves, our argument as futile as yelling into the surf. It releases my anger, and I do feel lighter, but nothing really changes. Just like the sea thrashing against rock, I throw myself at the problem again and again, expecting it to soften. I come at it with too much intensity, and you just turn to stone.

I storm out in front, fighting back tears. You trail behind, sunglasses still on despite the darkness. Then suddenly, he rises before me—Old Man Stoer.

The mace-shaped rock stands tall and proud, its top-heavy form evoking a warrior with broad shoulders. His dark, rugged mass is streaked with horizontal cracks, like battle scars inflicted by the relentless pounding of the sea. Drawn to the imposing shape, I break into a run.

I sit down on a rock, tears and snot streaking my face. Jutting out alone from the water, Stoer seems disconnected from his tribe. From my new perspective, his broad shoulders now seem weighed down, as though burdened by the sorrows of the world. Though forever changing shape, the Old Man has been here for centuries. He has seen it all. The wind blows my tears towards him. He takes the weight of my sadness.

Had Stoer always been this way? Or was he once alive, like you, prideful and unable to back down? I picture him: a fierce fighter, handsome with sharp edges, immovable even to those who loved him. His heart on the battlefield, each provocation met with retaliation. I imagine his wife trying to reach him, only to be met with coldness, until one day she left. In that silence, he turned to stone.

Stoer became an Old Man, frozen in time yet eroding, while younger, less rigid men conquered him. Now, they climb his hunched back to scale his summit, leaving their equipment abandoned on his head.

In his old age, Stoer is able to shoulder the weight of messy emotions. He stands unmoved by blame—his shadow has been fully integrated. As a young man, his ego was too fragile. In his isolation, with only hungry gulls and fulmars for company, he became a good listener.

That’s when I learn to tell it to rocks. To hold back, to let the storm inside me settle before I speak. When my head is full of complaints, I write them down while overlooking cliffs. Sometimes silence holds more power than words. I’m learning to wait for the moment you’re open to hearing me. We still have so much time, and you do love me.

He has a strong, furry brow and a large flat nose with a ring made from heavy steel. In the dim light, the subtle curve of horns emerges from his temples, hinting at his untamed ancestry. His eyes are narrow and have turned a watery green during his time inside the prison, which doesn’t receive any natural light. He stands up and sighs, the air bursting from his flared nostrils. His square jaw tenses and the fur in the back of his neck stands up. Something is afoot.

When they sent his tribute of seven young males and seven young females, he only devoured a total of thirteen souls. One young female still remains somewhere deep in the maze. He is unsure how long she has been here with him, invisible yet distinctively present and more silent than the mice. Days and nights are unimportant down here, but it feels like a long time. She may have perished by now. Though he thought he heard her giggle recently, but that would be bizarre and likely a dream.

When he first laid eyes on her, she looked at him scared, with big eyes the colour of tar. When he grabbed her by the shoulders, he noticed a twinkle appear in the blackness of her irises. She was different from the others. She lacked that sickly-sweet scent of fear. Her presence had made the corridor smell of the wildflower meadows he had faint memories of. His mother was there, though he couldn't remember her face.

He held the young female, only to let go of her confused. Her flesh felt firm yet cold, like an animal corpse left to the elements. Still, she felt very much alive, coursing with energy which he felt pulsating in his palms. For a while, they stood opposite each other in the torch lit corridor. She said she found him beautiful, after which he growled and stormed off.

She stirred something deep within him. He retreated to his Corner, accompanied by the drip-drip sounds of the leaky ceiling. The heavy lump of bitterness that sat in his throat softened. He no longer felt the need to constantly scrape at it. His mind was surprisingly quiet. He contemplated his future for the first time.

He continues pacing, brooding, trying not to think about her long black hair. Suddenly, the air changes and the corridor feels less oppressive. The sound of his heavy footsteps is interrupted by a voice, remarkably low for a girl. It carries a soothing quality that puts him on edge.

‘Why did they put you in this labyrinth?’ she asks.

This is the first time she makes a sound. They speak in different languages but somehow her words make sense.

‘Because he – because they – hate me,’ he says unsure of why he’s engaging in conversation with his food. It been a while since he ate the thirteenth offering and the hunger within him is growing.

She looks at him blankly with her intense eyes. Her eyelashes and eyebrows are light, barely existent. Taurus now sees that she has fine lines around the outer corners. A few strands of grey shimmer in the flickering light. She stands there, observing him, and it makes him feel uncomfortable.

She notices his thick fur gets thinner towards his broad shoulders, revealing his smooth boy skin underneath. She’s drawn to his chest, which is covered in scars and welts, some of which are infected. In this life, he has been stabbed, whipped and shot at, which makes him beautiful to her. She steps forward and softly places her hands on his upper arms, unfazed by him towering over her, and pulls him towards her. Towards the light.

‘Because you’re a monster?’ she asks, examining his face.

He feels exposed, like she is judging him or trying to read his mind. It makes him uneasy that she takes in his appearance, her expression unmoving. She smiles and reveals large white teeth. He hasn’t seen a smile in some time and it feels like a kick to the chest. He turns around and retreats to the shadows of his Corner of Contemplation.

‘Leave me alone.’

‘I have come to you so you can eat me.’

She removes the plain linen robe they dressed her in. It’s a dirty beige, not the crisp white they make the virgins wear. They haven’t adorned her with flowers or a head dress as embellishments would have been wasted on someone like her.

‘I’m ready,’ she says resolutely, brushing her straight hair behind her shoulders. He notices how small her frame is, vulnerable. The roundness of her pelvis challenges his hardened self-image. In the dim corridor, a light seems to emanate from the girl, who turns out to be a woman. The glow is as pale and icy as her skin.

‘Please,’ she says and closes her eyes.

The beast steps from out of the shadows ready to pounce. She stands there motionless and shining, serene and accepting of her fate. Then she opens her eyes just as Taurus grabs her by the hair.

‘Wait,’ she says, ‘I can help you.’

He lets go, taken aback by what has just happened. Killing and feeding is what he always does. It's what he does best. But this time, he is failing. His muscles weaken and he feels inadequate.

‘Shut up,’ he says, placing his hands around her neck. This is his favourite method for the female captives.

He stops when he sees his reflection in her eyes – a horned monster bathed in torchlight. A hint of guilt tightens at his throat, the familiar knot of self-loathing swelling anew. It stands in stark contrast to the wildflower meadow scent that keeps plaguing his nostrils. He tries to picture his mother’s face, but all he can see is the girl-woman’s black eyes.

The thought of his mother’s betrayal makes him tighten his grip around her neck. Her skin feels unnaturally smooth and resistant, like thick rubber in his fists. He longs to see fear in her eyes, to make her believe in his monstrous nature. He holds her in the light, baring his teeth, searching her face. Only to find her grinning. Her full lips frame unnervingly white teeth, her expression untouched by fear. A vein rises near her temple, pulsing beneath her flawless skin.

In her eyes, he sees his first kill on The Inside. Not a warrior, not a young male, but a stooped elder who had begged for his life. Disgust churns in his gut. He releases her. She stumbles, calling his name in a hoarse, broken voice as he storms away. Naked, she runs in the opposite direction, her footsteps fading into the darkness – until he hears it. That cackle. The one that has haunted his dreams.

A shiver runs through him. He misses her. He wants her to come back. For the first time in ages, he feels truly alive.

She doesn’t come back, and he has no desire to chase her. He settles for sucking the marrow from a femur bone. He chews on thoughts of Tau, his nemesis. His father. His God. With a sharp crack, the bone splits. He drains the last of the clotted grey mass, then hurls the bone at the wall, watching it shatter.

The other piece, sharp as a knife, he drags across the concrete floor, scratching out words and carving lines. A battle plan. A strategy for Tau, the King, and Master of War. An offering to impress him. He marks the front line, sketching where the soldiers will clash. He circles the flanks, plotting where an ambush could turn the tide. He draws barricades and fallback positions, arrows showing retreat, a skull and crossbones for death.

He tells himself it’s just to keep his mind busy, a way to silence the pull of her absence.

The plan takes shape, and in his mind’s eye, the battle unfolds. He sees the charge, the clash of forces, bloodshed, the triumphant moment of victory and a nod of approval.

Tau will visit soon. It has been too long.

Instead, it’s she who reappears. She runs up to him and leaps into his arms. To his surprise, he catches her, and she clings to his shoulders. The room spins around him.

‘Who are you? What are you?’ he asks.

‘You can call me Scorpio. They call me a witch.’

The torch flares, swelling as if a circus performer has spat petrol onto it. A cold wind rushes through the labyrinth.

‘Why are you doing this?’

I will rescue you. You just have to take my hand and follow me.

The torchlight flickers in the black of her eyes. In her alluring, low voice, she lists all that is beautiful about his face. His entire being is drawn into the orange, ever-shifting shape of the reflection until nothing else exists. Only the flames in her eyes and her lips, close to his now.

The world around him – his prison, the shattered bones, the eerie symbols, the condensation on the walls – fades to black. Until the sound of many feet shuffling on the concrete floor pulls his awareness back.

The torch now reveals an ornately carved sedan bed, with a pompous canopy, bearing the weight of a pointy-faced little man who sits poised upon it. Eight muscular men, their dark skin gleaming under the wavering firelight, carry the litter on their shoulders, gripping thick wooden poles wrapped in silk. They come to an abrupt halt beneath the flickering glow. Their chests rise and fall as they exclaim in unison, sixteen eyes fixed ahead, away from the beast. The delicate-framed man seated upon the bed straightens, then shifts effortlessly, spinning on his hip to let his feet dangle over the side of the velvet-draped mattress.

He wears strappy sandals covered with gemstones and a thick red and gold robe, the colour of sacrifice. On each finger, he has a golden ring encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. On his head sits a comically large golden crown.

‘I thought you’d be happy to see me,’ King Tau says and bellows with laughter.

‘Get up,’ he says. ‘Show some respect to an old man.’

Taurus obliges. He notices how the corridor looks new, freshly built. His markings are gone, and the walls are dry and free of moss. He looks at his hands – they are smaller, less calloused, and unscarred.

‘Chin up. Let me look at you.’ Tau gestures for his wife’s ghastly bastard son to come over and lifts a hand to his horn, tracing the deep grooves along its curve. With a whistle, he runs his thumb along the ridges, then pulls, as if testing his strength. He nods approvingly.

A curious child with a blonde bowl cut appears from behind the silk fabric of the canopy. He picks his nose and tugs at Tau’s sleeve. Dressed in a miniature red gown with a gold-rimmed cape, he looks more like a doll than a boy, the stiff ruffle around his neck at odds with his restless energy. Yet, despite the starched fabric, he can’t sit still, squirming and chortling as he clambers onto Tau’s lap.

‘Are you happy to see us?’

‘Yes, my King,’ Taurus finds himself saying, avoiding eye contact with the child.

‘Call me...’ Tau pauses. ‘Papa,’ he roars and smiles even wider, revealing dark, rotten teeth. The crown makes his head look small, his cheeks hollow. He straightens his pencil-thin moustache, wiping away some spittle from the corner of his mouth.

‘What a fine specimen you have become.’

Taurus looks down at his chest and abdomen. He tries to straighten his back and show off his muscles, but he feels unsteady on his hooves. Heavy shackles bind his ankles, a thick chain mounted to the wall.

‘Come on. FLEX!’ Tau exclaims, rubbing his hands together.

Taurus broadens his shoulders and puffs out his chest. His muscles feel young again, less sore. He looks at Tau for approval. He raises his arms and flexes his biceps, eager to impress.

The King applauds. ‘Marvellous,’ he chants. Then, under his breath: ‘What a buffoon.’

All the while, the men holding the bed stand still, unblinking, wearing nothing but linen loincloths. The mushroom-headed boy bounces up and down on the mattress.

‘Come on, papa, play!’

He jumps on his father’s back from behind and scrambles down from his shoulders onto his lap. The King settles him with a pat on the backside.

‘You must be hungry, dear Taurus.’ The little prince interrupts him by laying his sticky fingers on Tau’s moustachioed lips.

‘Shush, Papa!’ He somersaults off his lap. ‘Look at me!’

Taurus’ stomach rumbles. Since Tau put him in here, he has not eaten anything apart from rodents who dared come near his shackled heap of a being.

‘Yes, very much so, King. Papa.’

Tau claps his hands twice. A soldier marches into the corridor and pushes forward an old man, hunched over, wearing a filthy robe. He trips and falls to his knees, sobbing. Upon seeing Taurus, he starts to plead with his face in his crooked hands.

The soldier produces a silver pipe which shimmers in the light of the fire. The soldier puts the narrow end of the pipe in his mouth and lights a match to the round filigree compartment at the front. He puffs and hands the pipe to The King with a bow. Tau takes a deep drag, holds the smoke while leaning back on the cushions and his eyes roll back. His face is now motionless, blissful but still ugly.

He comes to and with red eyes he says: ‘Go on, eat.’

Taurus pulls at the shackles on his ankles. A wave of nausea washes over him and he wants to run off to the safety of the shadows, but the chains are forged of the strongest steel.

Tau sucks deeply on the pipe and he claps his hands again to which the soldier grabs the man by his few remaining strands of hair and slices at his neck. Blood pours out and he clutches at the wound. Screams have now turned into a gurgling sound. Before long, the man keels over, blood forming into an expanding puddle in front of him.

‘Kneel,’ The King says to Taurus, and the beast does what he is told.

With a sweeping and graceful movement, like a hawk diving down to catch its prey, Tau jumps off his elevated bed. And before Taurus realises his keeper has moved, he feels a hand on his left cheek. Tau gently pulls on his jaw, angling his bull face upwards to meet his gaze. There is a soft quality to this touch, like a mother brushing away a stray eyelash.

Tau, standing above him, shadowed and untouchable, then places his hand on top of Taurus’ head and smiles his wide grin.

‘You exist because the gods willed it,’ Tau says, his voice calm, absolute. ‘And you remain because I allow it.’

‘Thank you,’ Taurus says.

‘You are such a good boy. Now eat.’

Tau pulls him forward by the head into a deep bow. Taurus catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror-like surface of fresh blood. He sees his long, furry jaw, his bulging brow, the weathered ridges of his horns, and the tusks protruding from his bottom lip. A freak. A monster.

He grabs the lifeless body and feeds. The odd little prince claps with glee. Tau has taken his place back on the bed, puffs another drag from the pipe, and watches the spectacle.

‘Feast so you may live!’ he exclaims.

When there is nothing left but bones and robe, Tau claps his hands again. His slaves masterfully turn the litter, and they march back the way they came, following a glittering piece of yarn along the floor.

Taurus looks up, his vision blurring. He watches his self-proclaimed Papa depart through a film of red, blood caking at his cheekbones and eyelids. A tiny hand waves from between the drapes, followed by the helmet-haired, gilded brat’s face. He blows a raspberry, cheeks puffed, eyes gleaming with mischief and entitlement. Taurus could pounce on the entourage, tear through them with ease, but he doesn’t.

‘Don’t forget, you are down here because I love you,’ Tau says, his voice trailing off.

Taurus rubs at his eyes, but his vision stays red, clotted with floaters.

He blinks in short bursts, and the red starts to take shape. He tries to focus, to make out what he’s looking at. He feels woozy, but somehow content and full. The red shape is soft, round and shiny. Lips that part, revealing white teeth that blind his eyes. He suddenly feels warm and safe, a feeling he’s not used to.

When he finally returns to his senses, he realises he’s being held. The bleeding man, the diamonds and rubies, the oversized crown and the black teeth now feel like a distant memory. Her small hand strokes the back of his neck. She looks at him, eyes like black holes.

‘Poor Taurus. There has been so much suffering,’ Scorpio says. ‘Let me show you the way out.’

She kisses him, her tongue licking the underside of his top lip. The tension in his shoulders disappears, and he gives in to the feeling of release, like exhaling after holding his breath for too long. She feels triumphant now that the beast has embraced her.

Still, Taurus hears an echo. Feast.

Her fingers twist into his fur, tracing slow, circular patterns. A puddle nearby holds their reflection, the sight of them together makes her pause. He looks good on her. She presses her nails into his chest, relishing the contrast of pale skin against dark fur, how his roughness makes her feel cleaner, more delicate, more magnificent. He is power embodied, and she feasts on it.

He lifts her without effort, but it is she who guides him, her grip firming around his neck, her legs tightening around his waist as if drawing the life from him. He is blissfully unaware, drifting off in her beauty. She is softness and warmth with flushed, silky skin, the curve of her breasts pressed against him. He drinks in the scent of crushed wildflowers as it ripples through her hair, flowing like water around them.

He feels the strength in his deltoids as he holds her, the tension in his biceps as they tighten around her torso. For once, he is not lost in thought. He is body, movement, sensation.

The walls of the maze loom around them, their rough stone slick with moisture. Shadows shift and stretch in the dim light. His teeth graze her throat, and she groans as the labyrinth blurs at the edges.

Something sparks. The energy between them hums, moving in a steady current, looping back and forth, an unbroken circuit from their mouths to the centre of their bodies. It pulses, expanding and contracting, their breath syncing until they are one, their lips fused, bodies moving in perfect rhythm. And then, weightless, they sink into the freshly cut grass, wildflowers brushing against their skin.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, his body softens. His grip around her relaxes. He does not know where she ends and he begins, black hair tangled in fur, matted and damp. Sleep comes easily, the warmth of her pressed against him, the sun stretching across his face.

But in the quiet before waking, something inside him pulls tight. The maze is waiting, grief taps at his shoulder with a familiar hand, and he turns towards it, drawn to the comfort of what he has always known.

He wakes up to the familiar drip-drip of his corridor. It’s cold and dank and she is gone. He goes back to his Corner, shoulders hunched, head hanging heavy with the weight of himself. He doesn’t know what he craves more – food, to rip flesh off bone, or an answer to why everyone always leaves.

But then she materialises again, seemingly floating, still naked, translucent. The contrast between her soft beauty and the rankness of the maze is jarring.

‘Where were you?’ Scorpio whispers.

‘Here. This is where I belong. This is who I am.’

‘I can offer you freedom, beauty, instead of this draughty maze,’ she says, her hand outstretched. ‘You belong with me now.’

Taurus stumbles forward, drawn by the roundness of her hips, the way her thighs connect to her pelvis, to what lies between.

‘You just have to follow me. All I need is for you to take my hand. Together we can end Tau and all the suffering he inflicts.’

Her flesh becomes more opaque as he feels a force pull him toward her. Still, Taurus hesitates. He lifts a hand to his horn, tracing the deep grooves along its curve, running his thumb along the ridges. Then he pulls, like Papa had.

‘Why do you need his love, his respect, when you have me?’ she laments.

He swallows and stutters, speaking quietly in a boyish voice: ‘Who am I, if not Taurus of the Labyrinth?’

‘You will be Scorpitaur and you will have my love.’

Taurus howls, chest lifted, arms raised, gathering his strength before driving his fist into a pile of bones.

‘I’ll leave you here then, a prison of your own making,’ she spits, feet now firmly on the floor and turning away.

‘I can’t leave, but please, stay here,’ he pleads.

She scoffs, pressing her palm against the wall. A ripple spreads outward, the stone trembling beneath her touch before shattering in a cascade of dust and light. The air rushes in, crisp and foreign. His breath catches.

Beyond the jagged opening, a vast expanse unfolds. Taurus drinks in the sky, the forest, the shimmer of water in the distance. She looks small against it, yet somehow more powerful, standing at the threshold of everything he has never touched. Her world, her rules. Lips pursed, teeth clenched, a woman scorned.

She steps backwards through the hole, holding his gaze. The sunlight strikes her hair, catching a sapphire reflection of the sky, making it infinite. She is beautiful now, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting. He bends down, nostrils flaring at the scent of fresh earth and open air. Was it really this easy all this time?

With a sweeping and graceful movement, like a hawk diving down to catch its prey, Scorpio cups his left cheek, fingers pressing into his fur. She tilts his head upwards, guiding him to meet her eyes. The touch is deceptively warm, the way a father’s hand might rest on his son’s shoulder after a battle well fought.

Then, her fingers slide higher, resting atop his head. A gentle pat. Her smile spreads slowly, stretching wide, like two fishhooks have caught on either side of her mouth.

Mrs. Beretta's library was in The Hague, in the Netherlands, and the Art Deco buildings are still there. In her day, libraries were not free. They were private enterprises, run like small businesses. Widowed young, she had to work hard for a living. She had two boys, my grandad Peter and his little brother Arnold who had severe asthma.

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Yet, she kept the family afloat. Before her husband's death, she had been a hatmaker, crafting beauty out of felt and ribbon. When she needed a new livelihood, she turned to books. People paid to sit in her ‘reading library’ or to take a book away for a time. Her business also sold stationery, offered printing and business cards, repairs to fountain pens, and bookbinding.

Her brother-in-law invested in the library to support his wife’s sister and her children, a Catholic thing to do. The shop was named after him – Oomens, in true 1920s fashion. At the time, women couldn’t secure bank loans. He placed an advert in the paper announcing the opening; we still have the clipping. I looked up the address of her first library on Google Maps. It’s a children’s clothing store now, in a stately neighbourhood near the palace.

Later, the library would bear her own name, Taverne-Beretta (her deceased husband's name followed by her own) and open up in a different stately neighbourhood in the city centre, and again in a street next to a palace, Her Majesty’s ‘working palace’. I’d like to think that she must have been so proud to move into a much bigger shop, again near royalty. On my phone I look at a portrait of her sent by my mum, her granddaughter, in which she stares wistfully away from the camera with a huge updo. We have the same chin and Italian nose.

What would she think of libraries today? Would she marvel at the fact that anyone can walk in and borrow a book, for free? Or would she despair at how few children do? Studies from 2024 found that only one in three children in the UK read for pleasure. Only 34% of adults visited a public library in the previous 12 months, including those visiting for academic or paid work purposes. Published in 2024, a report found that 180 council-run libraries had either closed or been handed over to volunteer groups in the UK since 2016.

It’s easy to blame phones, games, streaming and attention spans. But how many people even know what libraries offer now? My dear friend, who leads strategy and policy at Leeds Libraries, often emphasises that libraries are more than just books. They are Warm Spaces. They offer free WiFi, job search support, film streaming, audiobooks, events and a sense of community. Again, all FREE!

And yet, funding is slashed year after year. So many people still turn to Amazon for something they could borrow. So many children are growing up in homes without books, never seeing the inside of a library at all. COVID is often blamed in articles, which makes me think about Mrs. Beretta living through war, through rationing, through times when words were all people had. Her library survived the Nazi occupation, even as her own sons hid in a broom cupboard while soldiers pounded on the door, dragging boys into forced service. My grandfather held his hand over his brother’s mouth to silence his wheezing. In the room next to them, the bookshelves stood undisturbed.

Among her belongings, we have a book from her library with a branded sticker that has since yellowed. The cover is plain, bound in red and black board, smelling faintly of cinnamon and dust. The book is a third in a series about a girl called Marijke, an orphan who is raised by her sisters and gets to go to college. The third and last book is about her travelling abroad while working as a nurse for a wealthy lady and meeting her son. Yes, they fall in love.

At the back of the book, I found pencilled return dates: 1947, 1948, 1949. Then nothing. I don’t know what happened in that moment, when the last person returned the book. The fate of Beretta’s Library remains unknown to me. Maybe the rise of free, state-run libraries made small lending businesses like hers obsolete. Maybe stories about girls who travel to meet wealthy husbands no longer captured readers' imaginations the way they once did. Maybe my glamorous grandmother just got old.

But I do know that a hundred years later, I sit in my own local library, drinking a free cup of coffee from the Warm Spaces initiative, tapping away at my laptop. Without spaces like these, where would we be?

On World Book Day, it’s easy to celebrate reading without thinking about the spaces that make it possible. Libraries will only survive when we use them. Borrow a book. Take your child. Tell a friend. Support the staff (who are all women, here in Hebden Bridge) who keep these spaces alive. Because once libraries disappear, they don’t come back.

However, on Cycle Day 1, I feel like a metal band has been fitted around my forehead and temples, the pressure increasing slowly like a medieval torture device. I wake up with this headache and an extremely dry mouth after sleep interrupted by nocturnal tampon-changing activities. It’s like the insides hiding in my pelvis have been taken out and put back wrong. My uterus, bladder, and bowels are inside out, upside down, and simultaneously congealed together.

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Having had a strong morning cup of coffee, my bowel is moving, but there is no sensation of urgency. The whole area in my lower abdomen is numb, save for a dull ache in and around my uterus. It feels full there, bruised and hardened. My reproductive organs have turned against their direct environment and host (me!) and seem to have encapsulated in a rubbery tissue of sore, raw flesh. Reason enough to spend my day moving from chair to chair, taking in the many views at my sister’s new farm in Norway.

The house sits alone in a snow-covered bowl, surrounded by a wall of granite at the back and a forested valley at the front. At night, occasional rock and icicle falls startle us awake with a loud crash, a reminder of the landscape’s unmanaged wildness. The sun comes up the side of the valley, at the front of the property, bathing the ochre-painted farmhouse in sunshine all day, while the cliffs at the back shield it from wind. It’s warm for the time of year; a thick layer of snow still clings to the roof, but not for long. The blinding white mass drapes over the roof’s edge like a thick, discarded carpet.

The home is made for relaxing, with cosy nooks, an L-shaped living room with warm lights, and low ceilings held up by thick beams. You must walk slowly here to make sure you don’t hit your head against them. I potter over to my favourite chair, where I sit daily to drink coffee first thing in the morning. From here, I can see the nearest visible neighbour, who is a few kilometres away as the crow flies. It looks like previous owners have cut away trees from the valley to enable a view of the house in the distance. Perhaps to feel less alone here in the community of Øyfjell, which means Abandoned Mountain. At night, you can see the lights twinkle across the valley. In the morning, all I see is the sun rising between the trees over the neighbour's farm. A sight that, after a long grey winter in the UK, feels almost intoxicating.

From this chair, I move to the kitchen for breakfast at the table below a large window overlooking the red-painted barn. As I have my bread with liver pâté and mackerel in tomato sauce—a typical Norwegian breakfast—the sky turns pale and it starts to snow. The red barn, the only distinct shape in the white expanse, makes the snowfall visible. Small flakes turn to feathery chunks. The world here is drained of colour as the snow swallows the green from the pines, leaving only stark contrasts of light and dark. The rock walls appear nearly black against the whisps of white on their rough surfaces.

After breakfast, it’s time for chores. I help with vacuuming and rearranging furniture. In return for food and great company, I assist my sister and her fiancé with their new home by washing the windows, a task that is highly satisfying on a difficult day like this. Cleaning has a clear beginning and end. The windows start off dirty, covered in debris and spider eggs, but after some work, they sparkle, and the job is done.

As an artist, I could spend hours on a project and never feel it was truly finished, always open to interpretation and scrutinised by the perfectionist inside me. In contrast, cleaning offers a tangible sense of completion. A quick win on a day otherwise clouded by self-doubt. Tomorrow, I will paint the bedroom while they are at work as nurses in the community, another welcome distraction. Tonight, it’s my turn to cook. For now, there is nothing left to do but return to my favourite seat and let the day settle around me.

My chair is situated directly next to the wood burner, an ornate black metal affair embossed with flowers and cherubs seated on a rainbow. The brand name ‘Ulefos, Model 1766’ is visible on the side. A heat-operated fan on the top spins automatically, dispersing the hot air through the room. All it takes to heat this room, and the bedroom above it, is three logs an hour. My favourite chair has wooden armrests and a sturdy seat covered in a sheepskin rug. A small rectangular pillow supports my lower back, offering some relief for the dull ache I feel there during CD1.

The wooden windowsill is my table. On it stands a branded plastic bottle that I have been reusing for months. I refill it with water from the tap, which is directly linked to a spring under the house. I have my notebook here and a book about female rage that I’m currently reading. Rage seems to be a thing of the past, I think, as I pick up my freshly brewed milky tea. I wrap my hands around the large mug, which I haven’t washed in a while. In this house, you hold on to what you use for a while. It saves washing.

In this chair, I give myself permission to be sick with the misery CD1 brings. In the low light, I feel myself easing into my fuzzy, aching state. Snow has been falling for hours now in small, tightly packed flakes. From this chair, I’m allowed to move onto the bed, without having accomplished much, for ten hours of sleep. Since it’s February and minus six, and I’m not needed elsewhere. Let’s face it, every month I am sick, yet I keep going, never truly resting.

My sister embraces a slower pace, choosing reading and baking over long distance hiking and goal-chasing. It becomes clear that this visit is teaching me about simplicity. We settle in for a pyjama afternoon, indulging in a freshly baked pound cake and hot chocolate by the fire. E. is familiar with menstrual health struggles, so I tell her about how menstruation is an inflammatory process while clutching the hot water bottle she made for me.

During our periods, the immune system triggers a controlled inflammatory response, helping the uterus contract to shed its lining. This process also brings cramping, pain, fatigue, and nausea. Stress compounds the inflammation, increasing the release of prostaglandins and cortisol, intensifying pain and prolonging symptoms. Keeping things simple makes sense when the body is already working hard.

Tucking into my second slice of cake, I also share with her a newly learned fact about retrograde menstruation—how menstrual blood can exit via the fallopian tubes in addition to the vagina. E. hadn't even realised that the ovaries sit disconnected from the tubes most of the time.

'The blood can go upwards and exit into the abdominal cavity.'

'So it just stays there, the blood?'

'Yeah, along with the tissue, the lining of the uterus.'

'That doesn't sound good.'

'Blood is an irritant, causing further cramps.'

I picture it congealing, clotting, turning brown inside me. I know the body to reabsorb the blood, but I imagine it pooling on my pelvic floor, lingering, sticking to my insides, fusing tissue together. My period is a process I can’t witness. Instead, I piece together intuition, scattered research, and my vivid imagination, trying to understand what hurts me so, yet remains unseen. Research is scarce, help barely available. Caught between medical uncertainty and personal anxiety, I am left to construct my own reasoning, filling in the gaps where doctors fall silent.

I used to go to work like this, popping a handful of Ibuprofen. If the pain became unbearable, I’d call in sick with a stomach bug. Now that I’m older and the monthly pain has worsened, I know to slow down on the bad days. Deadlines and office spaces don’t allow for that. This trip will be my reminder of how the Norwegian countryside in winter offers the perfect climate for slowing down. The silence, the heavy sky thick with snow, and the short days make stillness feel natural, inevitable.

I came here seeking quests: adventures, overnight treks, the life outdoors. I thought these strenuous activities would give me something to write about. I usually learn my lessons on the trail. When my body is busy, I see better, I feel more. But today, I realise I don’t have to do anything. The lesson arrives differently—through resting, on a chair, in good company, in a room without sound. Outside, there are only hills and trees, no direct neighbours, no traffic, no pubs. All sensory input is muffled beneath a thick layer of snow.

Today is a new day, the start of a new cycle. I can already feel my mood shifting. The climb is gradual, as oestrogen builds and energy stirs on the horizon. By the day after tomorrow, I will lace up my running shoes, fasten my crampons, and set out on the grit and ice covered roads for a 10K. My Personal Best a resounding proof that slowing down was not a surrender, but a strategy for strength.

J. strides ahead, effortlessly chic in her beautifully cut teddy fleece (‘Charity shop, of course!’) and striking purple hiking boots. Her fiery henna hair flares in the bright sunlight. An avid runner, J. is tall and slender with trendy glasses and an impressive collection of beanies and hats. Today, it’s a terracotta beret. Its nub is my lure, coaxing me up the mountain in my premenstrual state.

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I lag behind, bundled in a shapeless black parka and worn-out hiking trousers. It’s Cycle Day 23, and the chilly night in my cramped campervan, shared with the dog, has left me bleary-eyed and dragging. I found my Tempur pillow had stiffened in the freezing temperatures, and the top layer of my duvet had turned crisp with cold. Every couple of hours I had woken up to check on the dog who had made a nest out of my coat and fleece blanket.

The sharp winter air and wonderful company fill me with a sudden excitement, as does the prospect of the snacks and flask of tea in J.’s backpack. The cold bites at my cheeks, fixing my face into a permanent smile.

We pass people wearing crampons and polarised sunglasses.

‘We are doing the full horseshoe’, says the suntanned lady with her pink hiking outfit. She has done it before in the snow.

I’m concerned we may have bit off more than we could chew. The dog lurches forward, half-leaping, half-wading through the deep snow, her paws sinking with each jump. Yet she marches on, her tail wagging from below the hem of her olive-green waterproof coat. We are being overtaken by solo men with full-size backpacks, wearing zipped running jackets. We stop for chats. Locals mostly.

Each hill we crest reveals another rising behind it, until at last, we see the summit: Grisedale Pike. The snow gets thicker as we ascent. First it takes our soles, then swallows our ankles, cold drips seeping through woollen socks, sending icy shivers up our legs. I’m grateful for the hiking sticks she brought along. The stick works like a welcome third leg for balance. I plant it deeply to gauge the depth of the verge, but I’m not hitting anything solid.

When you walk on fresh snow, you have no idea what you’re really walking on. Beneath me could be a path, bracken, a stream, or a hole—a deep crevice between rocks. We follow the trail made by the feet of hikers who came before us, churning up some of the snow. Next to the stirred patches, bits of vegetation poke through the blinding white layer. I place my feet in boot marks, which look more like half metre deep holes. Pines lie half-buried, their lower halves completely covered.

The exertion of the climb takes our breath away. A comfortable silence settles over us as we become entranced by the crunching sound and the fresh air. I realise there was no need for the big coat with the beaming sunshine reflecting off the snow. Sweat drips between my breasts. Today, a few days before my period, I run extra hot. The three layers cling and chafe, their textures setting my nerves on edge. My damp skin overreacts to the clothing tags at my neck.

We take a moment to look back. The village of Braithwaite appears to be sitting in a mixing bowl surrounded by plump sponge cakes covered in spikes of whipped cream. The grass in the valley desaturates as the whiteness strangles the green. The village sits surrounded and protected by the giants around it. The owner of the local shop said that it hardly snows in the village itself as it lays embraced by the mountains. Later, we notice that Braithwaite feels warmer than its neighbouring Keswick. The mountains shield from the breeze where Keswick takes the cold air blown in from the lake.

From the tops, the Earth’s aura seems to reveal itself, glowing in an almost lime-green hue directly above the darkness of distant hills. The sky then shifts into a spectrum of colours, radiating from an eerie yellow to a light and a deep blue, streaked with cotton candy wisps of cloud.

Later, I learn this greenish tone is dayglow, which occurs when sunlight strikes the daytime atmosphere, energising atmospheric molecules as they absorb the light. In their excited state, these molecules release the energy as light, emitting it at the same or a slightly lower frequency or colour than what they originally absorbed.

Snowy landscapes always seem quieter to me, the soft drifts absorb our chatter. We feel as if we are on top of the world, looking down at a muted green basin, encircled by endless white. The illusion of silent perfection is shattered by fighter jets slicing through the valley below. From our vantage point, we nearly see into the cockpits, warping our sense of scale. A wave of anger rises in me. Their presence feels aggressive, an intrusion on my inner peace, a reminder of war, somewhere, sometime. Maybe soon.

J. recently split from her partner of five years and admits she still holds on to some sadness and resentment about the breakup. A lot has happened since their fateful Christmas, and the recent death of her ex’s close relative has left her with tangled emotions. Another fighter jet thunders through the valley, overpowering our conversation. We are restless, agitated. Like the sonic boom that swallows our voices on the mountain, J. felt throttled in her relationship, unable to make herself heard.

As is custom in my weird, emotionally expressive family, I ask her if she wants to scream—to let it all out. This feels like the perfect place. If fighter jets can practice here, surely two wild women can roar. We pause near the summit, looking out over the village below, then let our voices tear through the mountain air. Her scream is a little stifled, still pretty, while mine sounds like I’m about to be killed. I'm a seasoned yeller. J. is still new to confronting emotions deemed negative. Anger has no place in a world she fills with art, stunning outfits, and flowers, crafting beauty in her work as a wedding florist.

The sound breaks the air open, like a shock wave. My wail startled her. I joke that mountain rescue will be alerted to two women in distress. We celebrate with muesli bars and tea from another of her charity shop finds—a flask adorned with Moomin, the Finnish troll-like cartoon creature.

Determined to go further, we press on; the walk wouldn’t feel complete without reaching the top. But the snow holds us back. The dog leaps with giddy enthusiasm, yet she struggles, her legs vanishing, belly deep in snow. I worry she might disappear altogether, slipping through the world.

Lumps of snow have matted into J.’s long, Fair Isle-patterned socks. The path into the woods to the right of the summit walk—our intended route—proves treacherous. We keep going regardless and follow the faintest boot marks toward the plantation. These aren’t just sole prints but deep, human foot-shaped holes in the snow, their bottoms lost to shadow. The pines are nearly half-buried, their fresh green tips jutting out like floating dark triangles against the now pale sky.

Both ambitious by nature, we are persistent, drawn to circular routes and the promise of changing views. Undeterred by a challenge, we relish the thought of strenuous, looping paths. J. jokes that they look better on Strava, and we laugh about appeasing the fitness app gods. We plod on.

Then I step into a hole and keep sinking until my legs vanish and my boots begin to slowly fill with fresh snow. Still, I don’t find solid ground beneath my feet. I'm surprised by how the cold, scratchy texture feels soothing against my bare legs, my trouser legs pulled up by the sheer mass pressing against me. I try to grasp my surroundings, to pull myself up, but only sink deeper.

It’s like falling through the map in a video game. An itchy, dizzying sensation crawls through my brain, reminiscent of my time as a game artist, when unfinished sections of the map would send me plummeting into the void while I polished my artwork. The world above me slips away, untouchable yet visible, as I plunge further, drifting from everything I know into nothingness. Only to spawn again.

Up Grisedale Pike I keep glitching.

‘Some help, please.’

But she just stands there, laughing. I’m stuck, both legs trapped, and every attempt to move only makes me lose my footing further. I have no choice but to claw my way out with bare hands, sinking deeper with each desperate push. My gloves, of course, are still buried in my backpack since snack time. An icy wind cuts through, biting at the wet patches on my clothes.

Meanwhile, wildfires rage through Los Angeles. An image is engraved in my mind: a ghastly Cybertruck against a backdrop of smoke and the orange glow of embers. A lone palm tree stands beside the metal monstrosity, engulfed in flames. While last night, my hometown in the Pennines plunged to minus fifteen. Just two weeks earlier, it was plus fifteen.

We admit defeat and retrace our steps, moving faster now, slipping and sliding most of the descent. I flail briefly before momentum takes over, sending me backward, arms flung wide, creating an unintended snow angel.

‘Whoa there, you okay?’

‘All good,’ I giggle.

An attractive, chatty man in his forties joins us, walking a spaniel that keeps pausing to lick the snowballs collected in its paw fur. He has the easy confidence of someone unburdened by routine or stress, his face weathered but open with piercing blue eyes, the kind of person who thrives outdoors. I pick up my pace.

The dogs chase each other, no longer able to walk properly. They leap and pounce, darting like deer or foxes striking at prey—their movements frantic, playful and almost nervous. I push away the nagging worry about her getting wet and cold.

He tells us how he left behind a career and mortgage to travel the world, looking after pets through a pet-sitting website, spending his days walking and trail running. Life could be so easy. J. produces a Harris Tweed hip flask containing single malt whisky, which we pass between us as we descend, the walking turning into something closer to controlled falling. The pub calls.

We push on toward the town centre of Keswick, boots heavy with snow, legs aching, flushed with cold and whisky. A place with open fires welcomes us in, the air thick with the scent of wood smoke and beer. The dog curls up on a leather bench atop a heap of coats, resting her head on a stranger’s lap, keeping one eye on me before drifting into sleep. We sip on halves of local ale, working our way through the taps, and tuck into their famous goulash, the warmth settling deep into our bones.

I’m grateful I can do this. Just drive off into the sunset in my tiny motorhome and escape somewhere close to home. I’ve called her Aunt Polly, after the formidable and ever-loyal matriarch from Peaky Blinders, who has Romani heritage. My van is a Citroën Romahome, designed to look like a wagon. Inside, the benches face each other, prefect for deep chats late at night. From the cushions you can build a bed, which is harder than you’d think after a few glasses of wine. The available space can only be described as cosy, with barely enough space for a small stove, sink, fridge, cabinet, and the small double bed. Underneath, plenty of storage for food, waterproof clothing and sleeping bags.

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My womb-like retreat feels snug and warm, decked out in a mismatch of colours, fabrics and textures. A feathery dream catcher hangs from the storage shelf. Fairy lights are draped across both the width and length of the space. I light candles when I’m reading and drinking. Sometimes a glass of wine, most times just herbal tea.

To separate the living area from the cockpit, I have installed some old-school floral curtains that I salvaged from a bargain bin. The art deco inspired pattern clashes nicely with the mauve bench cushion covers. They are original, upholstered in a scratchy velour type fabric with plant motif. The tropical leaf pattern becomes visible as the direction of the fabric's tufts changes. The synthetic fibres create an optical illusion, a shadow play, as soft sunlight interacts with them differently depending on which way they point. A print without dye. A garish vision of the nineties. In Summer the texture leaves an itchy imprint on bare legs. Along the side of the van, there are windows framed with thick velvet drapes in a forest green shade.

One of the previous owners has stuck cheap looking wooden fishes all over the area we call the kitchen. They have diamanté eyes and are impossible to prise off the beige plastic surface of the wall. In stark contrast with the lush colours of the upholstery, the floor is covered with hard-wearing office carpet. Polly has seen better days and I’m fully aware that she drains my savings, but she takes me places. I must be good to her in return.

Out here, my eyes are like raisins, tiny and make-up-less. My face is a blank canvas of tanned, fresh skin. My wind-flushed cheeks are fixed in a contented smile. People who see me kick about the campsite, happy yet alone, would struggle to categorise me.
Is she a student? Or a recent divorcee?

With my steadfast walk to the sanitary facilities, they’d see a person who is six feet tall, with a longish yet beaming face and a nose that is committed to its own shape. Carrying a bowl full of dirty pots and carefully holding a lidded saucepan, upper body leaning slightly forward while maintaining a straight back to get there faster. Unnoticed. They wouldn’t have put it past me that the pan contains last night’s bedtime wee to be disposed of discreetly. Underwear may or may not have been changed the day before.

These weekends away were born out of the need to be alone, away from my D. and his teenage daughter. Don’t get me wrong, they are wonderful people, but they get a bit much. I’m the type of person who likes their own company best, especially after a long workweek. Camping recharges my batteries.

My trips give me the time to write, reflect, and simply exist without the pressure of being nice or useful. There’s no need to smile, listen, or pretend to be someone I’m not. In my van, I stay in bed journalling and doodling until one in the afternoon, after a night of binge-reading. In my own good time, I get up and drag myself out for another run. Running becomes a form of exploration rather than a pursuit of speed or exercise. I take woodland trails, canal towpaths and city streets at my own pace, allowing me to fully take in the beauty of the natural world.

Your eyes are still puffy from a long sleep as you hold your coffee cup in both hands. You take your first sip, brows furrowed, and your shoulders instantly lower. You seem deep in thought. We silently watch the village waking up in our dressing gowns, the morning still chilly with the sun hidden behind the mountain. A street cleaner sings a song as he gathers banana tree leaves scattered on the road. Locals sip their coffee in the bar below.

Breakfast is freshly baked bread delivered by a white van covered in pictures of exotic baked goods. Croissants like crescents of chubby brioche, sticky pastries studded with green and orange candied fruit. The driver, who we have come to call Bread Lady, beeps her horn while turning onto the street to alert the residents. People gather by the side sliding door and buy sugared donuts as big as their heads.

I like my breakfasts simple: crusty bread, butter, eggs, jam, and fruit. The tomatoes, with more flesh than seeds, perfectly complement the crispy fried eggs. I mop up the runny yolks, aware of your eyes on me as I tuck into the morning spread. You seem content with just your coffee and watching me indulge. The creamy butter, in contrast with the rough texture of the bread, melts on my tongue, leaving a cool, velvety trace.

You go for a walk and come back, softer, having worked something out. You’ve brought a papaya that you picked from a tree. Looking at me with those twinkling eyes, you brush strands of hair behind my ear, hold my face in your hands, and say sorry for what transpired yesterday. It makes me feel like I’m your girl again. We leave the messy table for what it is. Banana tree leaves rustle in the sea breeze.

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A fisherman catches a seagull on the end of his line, and everyone pitches in to set it free. Yesterday, he fared better, arriving at the bar with a fresh barracuda to show off to the curious punters on the terrace. I asked to touch its teeth. You sang along to the classic rock songs playing on the TVs, unaware that you’re getting the words wrong. Your face was so beautiful in that moment, a few pints in, when the storm behind your eyes settled.

The sun sinks low, throwing out electric orange streaks against the cool tones of dark blue. It’s winding down with the rest of us. At night, we drag the inside chairs onto the balcony and gaze up at the stars with craned necks. My lips lie loosely on the skin of your neck, and I breathe in through my mouth. The air that strokes my tongue reminds me of the silkiness of butter. Papaya juice drips down your chin.

Down at the pier, the fishermen are still there, though a new crew has taken their place. Let the constant roar of the sea sooth us to sleep for a few more nights. Over the next few days, this view will still be ours. Just us two, wearing as little clothing as possible

.

I become aware of movement to my right, across the valley. Clouds shift and gather, pressing down, making my universe feel smaller. I consider retreating, but I can’t face returning home to the even tighter walls of my study. I need to stay in motion.

It’s cold on top of the moors, yet heat prickles at my collarbones and my legs buzz with manic energy. My mind is foggy with resentment after another clash with you. Going back would mean admitting defeat. I can’t be stagnant. Not now, with the energy inside me charged, like the angry clouds above, desperate to break.

In my peripheral vision, I see clouds in various shades of grey group together as if conspiring. I can feel their oppressive presence as the land around me goes quiet. The air grows warmer, thick with an unsettling stillness. Then, a pheasant bursts from the shrubbery, releasing her raspy call in short bursts. The dog startles, ears pricked up.

The wind picks up from the right, stirring her wispy fur. A hulking rectangular mass is forming in the sky, its edges sharpening to something that almost looks manmade. I keep my gaze on the uneven stones of the old millworkers' path, avoiding the ominous formation. My steps grow hurried, hands pushed into the pockets of my hoodie.

The dog looks back at me, scanning my face with her head tilted, waiting for me to catch up. She stays close as the rumbling begins, head down to the ground.

‘Come on then, let’s go home.’

I start a jog. The end of the path is still out of sight, curving downward on the horizon. The heat spreads from my chest to my neck, across my face, through my shoulders, arms, and into my hands, where it tingles and stiffens my fingers. My mouth goes dry in the close air.

The thundery formation gains momentum, charging toward me like a lorry barrelling the wrong way down a motorway. I have nowhere to go but flat moorland. The cobbled path is my only escape route, as the bracken is coarse and the ground underneath jagged and uneven.

Do I accept my fate, hope for the best, or shall I start running?

The dog quickens to a hurried trot. Her long, thin legs wobble under the force of the wind. Her unsteady footing reminds me of the deer I saw stumbling across the road after a collision with a vehicle. The cloud-lorry charges closer.

The manic energy accumulates in my limbs. A sudden current surges through my muscles. My legs jolt, and I break into a sprint. I have to find shelter, get myself to lower ground, and hide beneath a thick canopy. To my left, the crown of a tree-covered dell promises the safety of woodland. I know it the be planted by man in the wake of the industrial revolution. I dart left and veer off the path towards the wooded dip. Water seeps into my shoes.

On this Autumn afternoon, I don’t belong in the moorland. It’s a barren place, an empty stage set for a performance of the elements. Soon, wind, rain, and thunder will reign here. The gorge feels out of reach, and I want to lie down, take the shape of a boulder, and dissolve into the landscape. But I keep running, the dog at my side to the sound of thunder. Lightning hits the other side of the valley.

Growing up in a flat space, adults warned me that weather can quickly turn on you.

‘Don’t stand in the middle of a field. Lightning can kill you in an instant.’

‘Don’t put up your umbrella in a thunderstorm.’

‘Don’t hide underneath a tree.’

It’s in my city-dweller DNA to hide in buildings, of which there are none on the moors.

I’m just a small speck in the weather’s vast universe, and today’s problems suddenly seem insignificant. Rain beats down on my head. I whip my phone out and I call you. I need your help.

‘Please, come get me.’