The rain has been relentless for hours, cold droplets seeping through layers of clothes that barely provide warmth anymore. I’ve been watching this family for what feels like an eternity, imagining, pretending. Their lives are like an old movie reel to me—flickering images of warmth, of safety, of things I once knew. The cups, the kettle, the idle chitchat… it’s almost like I can feel it through the thin walls of this back garden where I sit huddled beneath the tree.
I smile faintly, eyes half-closed, as I imagine Mum bustling about in the kitchen, the warm aroma of tea filling the air. She was always making tea. “Have a cuppa, it’ll solve everything,” she’d say, even when the world seemed to be crumbling. But that was years ago now. I don’t know what became of her, or the house we lived in. Funny, how a cup of tea could bring it all back like it was just yesterday.
Father’s voice rumbles from the back room, carried by the wind. I can’t make out the words, but I can picture him as clear as day, engrossed in whatever the politicians are spouting this time. He’s always cared more than I did. I stopped paying attention long ago, after all, what good has any of it ever done for people like me? Politicians talk, make promises, and we stay forgotten.
The sound of my sister’s giggles drifts from the upstairs window. Always with her friends, always with some boy on her mind. It’s comforting in a way, even if I don’t know what they’re saying. I wonder what she’d say if she saw me now. Would she even remember me?
And then there’s my brother. I miss him most, really. His laugh, his music—God, how I miss the music. He always had the best tracks, ones that made everything feel a little less heavy. If he’s got that job he was chasing, good for him. Maybe he’s one of the lucky ones who escaped this mess. Maybe I’ll see him around someday, when I’m not in this garden, drenched to the bone, staring into a life that doesn’t belong to me.
I sigh, rubbing my hands together for warmth, knowing it’s time to move. My half-hour of make-believe is up, and the real world is beckoning again. I’ve lingered here too long; the family will be heading to bed soon, the lights will dim, and the warmth that radiates from their lives will be out of reach, just like always.
The rain pounds harder as I gather my things—a tattered rucksack and a thin blanket. I hesitate for a moment, looking up at the softly glowing kitchen window, imagining what it would feel like to be in there, holding a hot cup of tea, surrounded by voices that care.
But that’s not for me. Not anymore.
I slip through the gate, quiet as a shadow, and step back into the streets. My safe sleeping spot isn’t far, just a few blocks over, beneath the old railway bridge. It’ll do for the night. But as I walk away, I can’t help but look back one last time.
Someone’s in the kitchen.
I wish it was me.
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Oh, man. Abbie. You get me by the heartstrings every time. I read a response you gave to a comment of mine, and where you said you lived for a year, homeless. How terrifying it must have been. When I read this, I thought about you and how this is actually something from your heart to ours. This make believe that everything is alright, where the buzz of family doing the mundane things that ensures you know things are right and then the realization that it is only make believe. I don’t want you to feel bad that I read things and get upset. I am a bit of a worrywort; tend to care too much for my own good, but seriously, being able to touch another human being with your words means your writing is powerful. I feel that there is a genuine, feeling person on the other end. Great writing, Abbie. Maggie
Thank you so much. Yes I was homeless for a year and yes, this one is really. It happened. I would sit under the kitchen window, unseen, listening to peoples everyday lives, pretending it was my life and that I’d just gone into the garden for awhile. I only ever stayed in places up to half an hour and then went on to where I normally slept, just outside the town.
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