Emma and I stood on the platform at Manchester Piccadilly station, the Monday morning rush swirling around us like a river around two stones.
We had taken a cab from her flat because we still didn't have a car, something that felt increasingly ridiculous given everything that had happened, but also strangely grounding. We were still us. Still the same people who counted pennies and took buses.
My train to Burton-on-Trent was due in five minutes. Two weeks. It felt like a lifetime.
"You've got everything?" Emma asked, her hand resting on my arm, her vibrant red hair catching the harsh fluorescent light of the station. She was wearing jeans and a simple grey jumper, but she looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful.
"Laptop, notebook, toothbrush," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "And a whole lot of imposter syndrome."
She smiled, but her eyes were glistening. "You're going to be brilliant, Danny. You know that, right?"
