On the Periphery

This wasn’t part of my plan. You have to understand that. There was no mission briefing. No emotional warm-up. No gentle psychological stretching before diving headfirst into unresolved history in the reduced fruit section. She just… falls into my eyeline. Just — there. Like she’s always been there, hovering at the edge of things, waiting for me to notice. And I do notice. Of course I do. And then, without consulting a single rational part of my brain, I decide to follow. Not in a stalker way. In a… curious observer with questionable boundaries kind of way. There’s a difference. A thin one. But still. Only — I’m not exactly executing this with any degree of finesse. For starters, I’m narrating the entire operation into an old-school walkie-talkie roughly the size of a brick. It’s the kind of device that suggests I should also be wearing camouflage and crouching in a hedge somewhere, not lurking between bananas and discounted satsumas. Every time I press the button, it emits a wheeze, like it’s on its last legs. Like this is the final job before retirement. One last case before it packs it all in and becomes an ornamental paperweight. And then there’s the carrots. Raw. Unpeeled. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. I don’t even like raw carrots. They taste like obligation, like the idea of health rather than the reality of it. Punishment disguised as virtue. But here I am, gnawing through one like a horse with metal teeth. Because this is a dream. And in dreams, we don’t question the carrots. I’m currently positioned in the fruit aisle of the local supermarket, crouched — badly — behind a display of bananas that offer all the concealment of a sheer curtain. My eyes track her. Unblinking. Slightly feral. Because her — in case there was ever any doubt — is Kylie. Three and a half years. That’s how long it’s been. Three and a half years of silence so complete it feels like something we chose… and then forgot how to undo. Like we both quietly agreed this version of us was easier, less brutal. No awkward apologies. No messy explanations. Just… absence. A mutual ghosting dressed up as “that’s just life.” Except for that one time at the doctor's surgery. I walk in. She was already there. And the second she sees me, she folds in on herself. Shoulders curling, gaze dropping, like she’s trying to physically exit the situation without moving, like if she becomes small enough, I might not recognise her. But I do. I always will. You don’t spend a lifetime beside someone and then suddenly forget the shape of them. Back in the present, she’s standing in front of the chilled section. Salads. She’s holding two. Greek. Caesar. And she’s genuinely torn. I press the button. “We have activity in the salad aisle,” I whisper, with far more intensity than the situation warrants. “Repeat — active deliberation between Greek and Caesar. This could go either way.” Static. Then Ash bursts through, already invested. “Oh my God, finally. I was beginning to think you’d lost her. What’s the situation? Who’s she with? Spill the tea.” Ash doesn’t just enjoy gossip — she curates it, shapes it, gives it narrative structure. Other people’s drama is her morning espresso. Double shot. No milk. “She’s alone,” I say. “For now. She’s leaning Greek. I repeat — leaning Greek.” “Bold. Fresh. Slightly chaotic. I respect it.” A beat. Then — “Wait. We have a development. A man has entered the frame.” My stomach dips. Properly this time. A small, traitorous lurch that feels wildly disproportionate and yet entirely familiar. He steps up beside her, says something I can’t hear, and she gives him a smile — polite, unguarded, unmistakably real. My heart flops, then steadies. Not him. The name I shall not name. Just… someone else. A man-shaped placeholder. A temporary character in a story I no longer belong to. I press the button again. “White male. Cap. Mid-forties. Strong ‘owns an assortment of fleece gilets’ energy. I’d describe him as aggressively beige.” Ash inhales sharply. “Not another Nick.” Ah, Nick. Ex-husband. Human lullaby. A man so monumentally dull he achieved a kind of accidental legend status. Mostly due to his one defining feature: He could play Careless Whisper through his nose. Flawlessly. Genuinely tear-inducing. And not always for the right reasons. “I’m giving him a generous 6/10,” I continue. “And that’s factoring in potential hidden depths, which I strongly suspect do not exist.” “She’s playing it safe again,” Ash mutters. “She’s moving on,” I say. And something about saying it out loud makes it feel… official, irreversible, like the words have sealed something I wasn’t ready to close. I follow them. Casually. Which is to say, I trail behind them while conducting what can only be described as a deeply suspicious vegetable inspection, picking up an aubergine and staring at it like it owes me answers. It refuses to engage. At another point, I accidentally abandon my trolley entirely and have to double back, nearly colliding with an elderly woman who looks at me like I’m the beginning of a cautionary tale. Children notice me. Children always notice me. One of them whispers, “Mum, that lady’s following that lady.” No subtlety. No loyalty. Just immediate exposure. I relocate immediately. Eventually, we spill out into the car park. Kylie unlocks her bike with that same easy, practised motion. Helmet on. Bag adjusted. Life — clearly — continuing. She turns. Waves goodbye to Mr. Beige. He waves back with all the charisma of a damp handshake. And then she’s off. “Oh shit,” I mutter. “I’m not built for cardio espionage.” And then — Like a drain spitting up something repulsive — I see it. That ponytail. That tragic ponytail. Thin. Fraying. Clinging on out of sheer stubbornness rather than purpose. I’d recognise it anywhere. Him. The name I shall not name. He rolls up beside her on his bike like he never left, and she looks at him and smiles — something easy and unmistakable passing between them, like nothing ever broke. And I feel it then — a quiet fracture spreading through me, something old shifting just enough to remind me it never healed in the first place. I press the button. “It appears Rat Bastard is still in the picture.” Ash groans. “Oh, for the love of— I thought she’d come to her senses.” “Apparently not.” A pause. Then softer — “You okay?” I watch them cycling away, perfectly in sync — and it settles somewhere deeper than I expect that whatever we were has slipped fully out of reach, replaced by something that works without me, something I’m no longer part of, and haven’t been for a long time. And suddenly — I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to narrate her life from the sidelines like I’m still part of it. I don’t want to observe. I don’t want to guess. I don’t want to be a spectator in something I used to belong to. Always hovering. Always just outside of it. So I throw the walkie-talkie into the nearest bin. It lands with a dull, final thud. Static crackles faintly. “Mand—Mand, don’t lose visual—this is premium content—Mand—” I walk away. Back home, reality doesn’t improve. It escalates. For reasons that defy both logic and basic animal welfare, Mat has placed our kitten, Pickle, inside a fishbowl. A literal, spherical, water-filled fishbowl. “He likes it,” Mat says, with alarming confidence. “He’s my water baby.” Pickle looks like he's been… pickled. “Get him out,” I snap. “This isn’t a baptism, Mat.” Pickle is retrieved. He emerges like he’s just been dredged from the deep sea, soaked, spindly, deeply unimpressed. I wrap him in a blanket and hope he finds it in his heart to forgive me. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur. He purrs. Which somehow makes it worse. I head to the kitchen and reach for the cereal. Routine. Safe. Something measurable. Something that doesn’t look back at me. Milk. Bowl. Flakes. The small, ordinary sound lands too loudly. The pour. The clink. The soft collapse of structure. And then — A crackle. Soft. Familiar. Impossible. I freeze. Slowly… I open the cupboard. And there it is. The walkie-talkie. Untouched. Waiting. Exactly where it shouldn’t be. Exactly where I didn't leave it. I stare at it. I don’t move. But it crackles again anyway. And then — Her voice. Clear. Close. Too close. “Still watching?” I don’t breathe. “You always did that,” she continues. “Hovered. Observed. Reported back. Like that counted as being there.” Static flickers. My grip tightens on the counter. “I was waiting, you know.” A pause. Long enough to hurt. “For you to actually say something.” The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full. Heavy. Final. Accusatory in a way that doesn’t need volumn. And then — A soft click. Dead air. I stand there, cereal sogging quietly in my hands, the world too still around me. Because the worst part isn’t what she said. It’s that I never remember pressing the button. And somewhere — just at the edge of hearing — there’s still a faint, intermittent crackle. Like the line never fully closed. Like it’s still open. Waiting. Listening. For a response I didn’t give. And maybe — still can’t. Or worse — already did.