Scene 40¶
Scene 40¶
No Questions First¶
[26-01-??]
Scene 40 — “No Questions First” (Lauren POV)
When Sarah rings you at night, you answer.
Not because she’s fragile—Sarah is many things, but fragile isn’t one of them.
You answer because women who don’t ask for help until they have to are the ones who end up in trouble when they finally do.
I was in the kitchen when the call came in, rinsing a mug and thinking about nothing in particular. The sound of my phone was ordinary.
The reason for it wasn’t.
“Lauren?” Sarah’s voice was careful—too careful. Tight at the edges. Like she was trying to keep her pride from spilling into the call.
“Sarah,” I said. “Where are you?”
There was a pause, a swallow. “Near—” she named a street. A venue. A landmark. Bree’s name followed like a relief valve. “Bree’s with me.”
Good. One woman, at least.
“Stay where you are,” I said. “Sit down. Don’t go anywhere alone. I’m coming.”
“Thank you,” she said, as if she hated the words.
“No thanks,” I replied. “Just wait.”
I hung up, grabbed my keys, and sent one text to Celeste.
Going to pick up Sarah + Bree. Will update.
No explanation. Celeste didn’t need a story. She needed the fact.
On the way out I glanced at Charli’s shoes by the door—neatly placed, toes aligned—and felt the small, familiar pinch in my chest that came with seeing my child’s life overlapping someone else’s home.
Not my home. Not quite yet.
But safe enough.
That was the point.
I drove through the city with my jaw set and my hands steady on the wheel. Not because I was calm. Because I had practice. Motherhood trains you to turn panic into logistics.
I thought, briefly, of the folder on my phone—screenshots, dates, times. The unromantic evidence of a woman being asked to manage a man’s feelings.
I didn’t need the details to know the shape of it.
You could tell the shape from the call alone.
Help, but don’t make me beg.
When I pulled up, I spotted them immediately.
Bree on a bench, arm around Sarah’s shoulders, posture angled outward like a shield. Sarah sitting upright, chin lifted, eyes too bright in the streetlight. She looked… competent and unwell at the same time, which is a particular kind of danger.
I parked, got out, and walked over without running. If I ran, it became drama. If it became drama, Sarah would recoil.
“Hi,” I said, as if this were nothing more than a late pick-up from the airport.
Bree stood first. “Hey,” she replied, brisk and grateful. “She’s okay. Just… overloaded.”
Sarah’s eyes flicked to my face, assessing. Expecting judgement. Expecting mum voice.
She got something else.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get you home.”
Sarah’s mouth tightened. “I can—”
“No,” I said, not unkind. “You can’t. Not tonight. Not safely.”
The word safely wasn’t a reprimand. It was a standard. Something you either met or you didn’t.
Sarah swallowed. Then she nodded once, small.
Bree opened the back door. Sarah moved toward it, but her steps weren’t as precise as her pride wanted them to be. Bree steadied her without fuss.
I waited until Sarah was seated before I spoke again.
“Seatbelt,” I said, calm.
Sarah clicked it, cheeks flushing.
Bree slid into the front passenger seat. I got in, shut the door, and took a breath.
Only then did I ask the first question.
“Is he contacting you right now?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road as I pulled away.
Sarah’s laugh was dry. “That’s your first question.”
“Yes,” I said. “Because that’s the only one that matters this minute.”
Bree angled her phone toward me. “Blocked calls,” she said. “A few.”
I nodded once, already making a mental list.
“Good,” I said. “We’ll document. You don’t answer.”
Sarah leaned her head back against the seat, eyes closed for a moment. “I didn’t,” she muttered. “I didn’t answer.”
“I know,” I said. “You called me.”
That, apparently, was the right thing to say, because Sarah’s throat moved and she didn’t speak for a few seconds.
Bree glanced at her, then looked forward again, jaw tight.
“He’s not Ethan,” Bree said. “Tonight was… a different one.”
I felt my stomach go cold.
“Different one,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady.
Bree nodded. “Some bloke. Grabby. The usual. We left.”
Sarah spoke then, voice low. “I said no. He acted like I’d flirted.”
Of course he did.
I kept my eyes on the road. There were two things I could do right now: give empathy, or give stability.
Sarah needed stability.
“Okay,” I said. “So: two problems. One, the ex. Two, the world.”
Bree barked a laugh. Sarah’s mouth twitched, almost despite herself.
“Lucky me,” Sarah muttered.
“Not luck,” I said, and let the steel in my voice come through. “Patterns. We deal with patterns.”
I pulled up at Bree’s building, because that’s where Sarah needed to be tonight: somewhere she wouldn’t feel hunted, somewhere she wouldn’t have to walk from car to door alone while her brain did ugly arithmetic.
Bree got out first, opened Sarah’s door, offered an arm.
Sarah hesitated, pride flaring.
I cut it off clean.
“Sarah,” I said, quiet. “Don’t be brave at the wrong time.”
She stared at me for a beat. Then, grudgingly, she took Bree’s arm and stepped out.
Inside, Bree’s place was small and warm—women’s clutter, shoes kicked off, a throw blanket draped like an afterthought. Bree guided Sarah to the couch and handed her a glass of water with the calm authority of someone who has done triage.
I sat opposite them and opened my phone.
“All right,” I said. “We do boring now.”
Sarah squinted. “Boring.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Screenshots. Dates. Times. Building manager log. One clean statement. No essays.”
Bree hovered behind the couch, arms folded. “I love you,” she told me, deadpan.
Sarah groaned. “Please don’t.”
I ignored both of them and held my phone out.
“Sarah,” I said. “Send me the message thread.”
Sarah stiffened. “Why?”
“Because if you’re rattled,” I said evenly, “you might answer by accident. Or delete something out of shame. Or forget a detail you’ll need later. I’m not letting your nervous system do admin.”
Sarah stared at me, then exhaled sharply.
“Fine,” she muttered. “God.”
“Thank you,” I replied, and waited.
Sarah unlocked her phone, scrolled, and began forwarding screenshots. Each one landed in my messages like a pebble in a jar—small, ordinary, cumulative.
Ethan’s language was exactly what I expected.
You can’t do this to me. Stop being dramatic. I just need to talk. I’m outside.
None of it technically violent.
All of it coercive.
A man trying to turn “no” into “not yet.”
I felt my mouth go tight.
I made a folder.
Sarah — Ethan — Jan
Then another:
Venue incident — notes
Not because I wanted to build a case tonight.
Because I wanted Sarah to know—without me saying it—that this wasn’t chaos.
It was manageable.
Sarah watched my hands moving with a kind of exhausted relief that made my chest ache. She didn’t want to be mothered.
She wanted the world to be structured again.
Bree crouched beside her on the couch and spoke softly.
“You did the right thing calling Lauren,” Bree said.
Sarah snorted. “I called someone’s mum.”
Bree grinned. “Better than becoming someone’s mum.”
Sarah’s laugh cracked into something almost real. Then she rubbed her face with both hands, sudden vulnerability slipping through.
“I’m so tired,” she said, and the words were barely audible.
I didn’t soften into pity. Pity makes women smaller. Sarah would rather crawl out of her skin.
So I gave her something else.
A plan.
“Okay,” I said. “Tonight: you sleep here. Bree stays with you. Phone on Do Not Disturb. If he calls, you do nothing. If he shows up, you do not engage. You call police. Period.”
Sarah’s eyes flashed. “That’s dramatic.”
“It’s not dramatic,” I said. “It’s procedure.”
The word procedure landed like a handrail. Sarah’s shoulders lowered by a fraction.
“Tomorrow,” I continued, “we update your building manager. We confirm he’s not allowed entry. We take your documentation and we file what needs filing. And if he appears at Wardrobe, you do not handle it alone.”
Sarah blinked. “He wouldn’t—”
“He might,” I said. “Men like this confuse public space with entitlement space. We don’t assume good behaviour.”
Bree nodded sharply. “Mara will eat him.”
“With a fork,” I said.
Sarah’s mouth twitched again. Then, finally, her voice went small—rare for her.
“Okay,” she said.
Not “fine.”
Not “whatever.”
Okay.
I stood.
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” I said. “And Sarah?”
She looked up.
I held her gaze and made the sentence as plain as a ledger entry.
“This isn’t your fault.”
Sarah’s eyes sharpened, reflexively allergic to comfort.
“I know,” she said.
I didn’t let it slide.
“No,” I repeated, quiet and firm. “Really know.”
Something in her face shifted—anger, grief, exhaustion—then settled.
“I know,” she said again, and this time it sounded like she was trying to believe it.
“Good,” I said. “Because you’re not going to carry his behaviour like it’s your responsibility.”
Sarah swallowed. She nodded once.
Bree reached for her hand and squeezed it.
I left them there—two women on a couch, one holding, one being held—because that was the whole point of the network.
Not rescue.
Not melodrama.
Just women refusing to let another woman be alone in a moment that could have tipped her into danger.
On the drive home, my phone buzzed once.
A text from Celeste.
All okay?
I replied without stopping at a red light, because some things mattered more than traffic etiquette.
Sarah safe. Bree with her. Ex escalating; we’re going formal. Will brief Mara tomorrow.
I put the phone down.
The streetlights slid past.
And I felt, with a strange, steady clarity, the way all of this rhymed.
Charli. Sarah. Bree. Celeste. Mara.
Different stories, same pattern: women tightening the net under one another, quietly, methodically, refusing to let male entitlement be the unchallenged weather of their lives.
Tomorrow, we’d do the boring things again.
Paperwork. Logs. Rules.
The unglamorous machinery of women making the world safe enough to live in.
And I would do it without apology.
Notes26-01-23e¶
Scene 49¶
[26-01-23]
Scene 49 — “Consequences” (Celeste POV)
I waited until lunch.
Not because I wanted to punish her with time.
Because if I spoke too soon, my voice would carry the wrong emotion.
I needed to be the adult.
And—this was the new part—I needed to be the adult while my body still wanted her hands on my skin.
That was the discipline now.
After lunch, I sent Charli a single message.
Back room. Five minutes.
No emoji. No softness. Structure.
Charli arrived exactly on time, of course.
She stood just inside the door like a schoolgirl, shoulders tight, hands clasped in front of her as if her fingers couldn’t be trusted.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. She’d tried not to cry. She’d failed. Quietly.
I didn’t comment on it.
I leaned against the table and kept my face calm.
“What happened this morning,” I said, “was unsafe.”
Charli flinched.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“No,” I said, and held up a hand. “Not that word. You don’t apologise to make yourself feel smaller. You listen.”
Charli’s mouth closed. She nodded once, hard.
I continued, steady.
“Wardrobe is a women’s workplace. It is a safe space by design. That design depends on two things: privacy and clarity.”
Charli stared at the floor, breathing shallowly.
“You touched me in a way that signalled intimacy,” I said. “In front of staff. In front of a client.”
Charli’s throat moved. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to signal—”
“I know,” I said, and my voice softened one notch because it was true. “But intent is not the point.”
Her head lifted slightly, eyes wet.
“The point,” I continued, “is consequences. In a room like ours, intimacy becomes currency for other people. Gossip. Leverage. Narratives. And women pay for that.”
Charli’s face crumpled, not theatrically—just honest pain.
“I didn’t think,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said again. “That’s why we’re talking.”
I pushed off the table and stepped closer—not to comfort her, but to anchor her with fact.
“This is not me rejecting you,” I said, very clearly. “This is me protecting you. And protecting Wardrobe.”
Charli’s eyes snapped up.
“You’re… not…?” Her voice broke.
I held her gaze.
“No,” I said. “I’m not.”
She exhaled shakily, as if she’d been holding her breath since morning.
Then the devotion returned—too fast, too eager—and she stepped forward like she wanted to touch me to confirm it.
I stopped her with a small gesture.
Charli froze.
I let the silence do its work.
“This is part of being a woman in a women’s space,” I said. “You don’t get to let your feelings spill wherever they want. You learn where it’s safe.”
Charli nodded rapidly, tears slipping now.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. I can. I will.”
“Good,” I said.
Then I delivered the consequence, clean and boring, like policy.
“For the next two weeks,” I said, “you and I behave at work as we always have. Professional. No private signals. No touches. No looks that linger. We don’t feed anyone a story.”
Charli’s face tightened in fear.
Two weeks must have sounded like exile.
I watched her carefully.
“This is not punishment,” I added, because I meant it. “It’s training. It’s protection. It’s a reset.”
Charli swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered, and I could see her trying to be brave.
“And,” I continued, “if you feel the urge to touch me at work, you redirect it into craft.”
Charli blinked.
I nodded toward the shelves.
“Pins,” I said. “Ties. Tension. You put your devotion into the work. That is how women survive in public.”
Charli’s breath shuddered.
“Yes,” she said again, steadier this time. “I understand.”
I held her gaze for a long beat, then—because I am not cruel—I gave her one truthful softness.
“Last night,” I said quietly, “was real.”
Charli’s eyes filled again, but this time the tears looked like relief.
“And it will continue,” I added. “At home. After hours. Where it is safe.”
Charli nodded, trembling.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I’ll be good.”
I sighed—small, controlled.
“Don’t say ‘good’ like that,” I said. “Say ‘careful.’”
Charli swallowed, corrected herself.
“I’ll be careful.”
“Better,” I said.
I stepped back and opened the door.
“Now,” I said, returning to the adult voice, “wash your face. Fix your posture. Go back out there. You’re not in trouble. You’re learning.”
Charli wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand, nodded, and turned to go.
At the doorway she paused—hesitated—then looked back at me with a question in her eyes.
Not asking for touch.
Asking for certainty.
I gave her a small nod.
The kind that says: We are still us. Just not here.
Charli exhaled and went back into Wardrobe.
I closed the door and stood alone in the back room for a moment longer than necessary, letting the ache in my chest settle into something I could carry.
Because this was the new truth:
I wanted her.
I wanted her touch.
And I would still choose the standards that kept her safe.
Even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
If you like, the next scene can be the evening after this consequence talk — where Charli, determined to “be careful,” becomes almost comically cautious… and Celeste has to guide her back into softness: “Careful doesn’t mean distant.” That’s a gorgeous way to show Celeste’s floodgates staying open in the correct place. 💛
Notes26-02-04ev1¶
Omni Version¶
[26-02-04]
Scene 40 — “The Good One” (Sarah POV, past tense)
He turned up at Wardrobe with a tool belt and a polite expression.
Sarah noticed both.
Not because she was shallow—she wasn’t—but because years of navigating men had taught her that competence came in different flavours: loud competence that wanted applause, and quiet competence that just got on with the job.
This one had the second kind.
Mara pointed him toward the back wall where the lights had been flickering like a haunted house feature. He listened. He nodded. He asked one sensible question. Then he got to work without making anyone’s day harder than it already was.
Sarah found herself watching him between stitches.
Not in a hungry way.
In a curious way.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and looked at Mara—not at Celeste, not at Sarah, not at whichever woman happened to be nearest—as if the authority in the room was obvious to him.
“All sorted,” he said. “That fitting room circuit was loose. I re-terminated it. Should be stable now.”
Mara’s nod was brief, approving. “Good.”
He smiled—small, contained. “Carl.”
Sarah gave him a look. “Sarah.”
His gaze flicked to her hands—needle, thread, the precision of her work—then back to her face.
“You make that look… easy,” he said.
Sarah snorted. “It’s not.”
“I figured,” he said, and there was no condescension in it. Just respect. “Still. It’s good work.”
He didn’t overdo it. He didn’t flirt like it was a performance. He didn’t scan her body as if he was shopping.
He just… spoke to her like she was a person.
Which, depressingly, narrowed the field.
Later—because Celeste had the subtlety of a freight train when she wanted something to happen—there was an invitation that wasn’t exactly an invitation.
“Come out with us,” Celeste said, as if she were scheduling a meeting. “Saturday. Somewhere with shade. Sarah needs feeding. You too, if you’re not feral.”
Carl’s eyebrows went up, amused. “That’s an option?”
“It’s always an option,” Celeste said. “Most people choose better.”
Sarah rolled her eyes, but she found herself saying, “Alright then,” as if she wasn’t curious.
The date—if it could be called that—was easy.
Carl picked a place that wasn’t trying too hard. He arrived on time. He asked questions and actually waited for answers. He didn’t fill silence like it was a threat. When Sarah teased him, he laughed without trying to win.
And Sarah, to her surprise, didn’t feel like she had to armour herself.
The trouble began about twenty minutes in, when Celeste texted:
where are you
Sarah stared at it.
Of course.
She hadn’t even replied when Bree sent a photo: Bree and Lily somewhere bright and smug, holding iced coffees like trophies.
You better not be having fun without us 😘
Sarah looked up to find Carl watching her with mild curiosity, not suspicion.
“Your… friends?” he asked.
Sarah sighed. “My… workplace. It’s a women’s atelier. They behave like a flock.”
Carl’s smile was warm. “Sounds… intense.”
“It is,” Sarah said. “And occasionally delightful.”
A minute later, Celeste and Charli actually appeared—not on purpose, Sarah suspected, but as if the universe itself had decided Sarah wasn’t allowed one uncomplicated experience.
Celeste spotted them and did that crisp, predatory pause she did when she was assessing a scene.
Charli hovered half a step behind, polite as a ghost.
Bree and Lily arrived shortly after, laughing too loudly and immediately taking control of the table arrangement as if it were a military operation.
Carl stood when they came over. He introduced himself. He shook hands. He didn’t leer, didn’t interrupt, didn’t puff up.
He was… good.
A decent bloke.
The kind of man you could bring home to a mother who was difficult to impress.
And Sarah sat there, watching him hold his own without pushing, watching him make space for the women without vanishing, and realised the truth with a kind of quiet inevitability:
He wasn’t wrong.
He just wasn’t hers.
Because the warmth she felt tonight—what steadied her, what made her softer—wasn’t Carl’s attention.
It was the way Charli leaned into Celeste’s shoulder when Celeste murmured something at her ear.
It was the way Celeste reached for Charli’s water glass without thinking, refilled it, slid it back—care like muscle memory.
It was the flicker in Bree’s eyes when Lily touched her wrist.
It was woman-shaped. Woman-made. Woman-understood.
Sarah felt her stomach drop a fraction—not with dread, but with clarity.
Carl glanced at her as the others argued about dessert.
“You alright?” he asked quietly, like he’d noticed the shift.
Sarah looked at him.
He deserved honesty. The real kind, not the kind that patted a man on the head and sent him away confused.
“I am,” she said. Then she inhaled, steady. “But I need to tell you something, before this turns into… anything.”
Carl’s face changed—subtle, bracing. “Okay.”
Sarah let herself be blunt. It was kinder.
“You’re lovely,” she said. “You’ve done everything right. You’re not a jerk.”
A flicker of pain crossed his mouth anyway. He tried to hide it. He wasn’t very good at lying.
Sarah continued, not rushing.
“But my happiness,” she said, and her voice softened despite herself, “is not shaped like you.”
Carl held her gaze.
For a second he looked like he wanted to bargain. Then he exhaled, long and controlled, and nodded once.
“Right,” he said. “Thank you for telling me straight.”
Sarah’s chest loosened with relief so sharp it almost hurt.
He gave a small, honest smile. “Still… I’m glad I met you.”
Sarah returned it. “Me too.”
And because he was decent, he didn’t make it ugly.
Because she was Sarah, she didn’t pretend it was anything but what it was.
Not all blokes were jerks.
Some were genuinely good.
But goodness wasn’t the same thing as right.
And Sarah had finally decided she wasn’t going to confuse the two ever again.
End Scene 40.
Notes26-02-06ev1¶
1st Person¶
[26-02-06]
Scene 40 — “Not Shaped Like You” (Sarah POV, 1st person, past tense)
He turned up at Wardrobe with a tool belt and a polite expression.
I noticed both.
Not because I was shallow—please—but because years of navigating men had taught me competence came in different flavours: loud competence that wanted a medal, and quiet competence that just got on with the job.
This one looked like the second kind.
Mara pointed him toward the back wall where the lights had been flickering like a haunted-house feature. He listened. He nodded. He asked one sensible question. Then he got to work without making anyone’s day harder than it already was.
I found myself watching him between stitches.
Not in a hungry way.
In a curious way. Like: Is this what it looks like when a bloke is normal? Because the bar was low enough to trip over.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and looked at Mara—not at Celeste, not at me, not at whichever woman happened to be nearest—as if the authority in the room was obvious to him.
“All sorted,” he said. “That fitting-room circuit was loose. I re-terminated it. Should be stable now.”
Mara gave him a brief nod. “Good.”
He smiled—small, contained. “Carl.”
I gave him a look. “Sarah.”
His gaze flicked to my hands—needle, thread, the precision of my work—then back to my face.
“You make that look… easy,” he said.
I snorted. “It’s not.”
“I figured,” he said, and there was no condescension in it. Just respect. “Still. It’s good work.”
He didn’t overdo it. He didn’t flirt like it was a performance. He didn’t scan my body like he was shopping.
He just… spoke to me like I was a person.
Which, depressingly, narrowed the field.
Later—because Celeste had the subtlety of a freight train when she wanted something to happen—there was an invitation that wasn’t exactly an invitation.
“Come out with us,” Celeste said, like she was scheduling a meeting. “Saturday. Somewhere with shade. Sarah needs feeding. You too, if you’re not feral.”
Carl’s eyebrows went up, amused. “That’s an option?”
“It’s always an option,” Celeste said. “Most people choose better.”
I rolled my eyes, but I heard myself say, “Alright then,” as if I wasn’t curious.
The date—if that’s what it was—was easy.
Carl picked a place that wasn’t trying too hard. He arrived on time. He asked questions and actually waited for answers. He didn’t fill silence like it was a threat. When I teased him, he laughed without trying to win.
And to my surprise, I didn’t feel like I had to armour myself.
That should’ve felt like a relief.
Instead it felt like standing in warm water and realising you’d forgotten what warm felt like.
The trouble began about twenty minutes in, when Celeste texted:
where are you
I stared at it.
Of course.
I hadn’t even replied when Bree sent a photo: Bree and Lily somewhere bright and smug, holding iced coffees like trophies.
You better not be having fun without us 😘
I looked up to find Carl watching me with mild curiosity, not suspicion.
“Your… friends?” he asked.
I exhaled. “My… workplace. It’s a women’s atelier. They behave like a flock.”
Carl’s smile was warm. “Sounds… intense.”
“It is,” I said. “And occasionally delightful.”
A minute later, Celeste and Charli actually appeared—because apparently the universe had decided I wasn’t allowed one uncomplicated experience.
Celeste spotted us and did that crisp, predatory pause she did when she was assessing a scene.
Charli hovered half a step behind, polite as a ghost.
Bree and Lily arrived shortly after, laughing too loudly and immediately taking control of the table arrangement as if it were a military operation. Chairs scraped. Bags moved. Decisions made.
Carl stood when they came over. He introduced himself. He shook hands. He didn’t leer, didn’t interrupt, didn’t puff up.
He was… good.
A decent bloke.
The kind of man you could bring home to a mother who was difficult to impress.
I watched him hold his own without pushing. I watched him make space for the women without vanishing. I watched him listen with his whole face, like he was used to women having opinions and didn’t take it personally.
And then the truth arrived, quiet as gravity.
He wasn’t wrong.
He just wasn’t mine.
Because the warmth I felt that night—what steadied me, what made something in my chest soften—wasn’t Carl’s attention.
It was the way Charli leaned into Celeste’s shoulder when Celeste murmured something at her ear.
It was the way Celeste reached for Charli’s water glass without thinking, refilled it, slid it back—care like muscle memory.
It was the flicker in Bree’s eyes when Lily touched her wrist. The way Lily’s thumb stayed there half a second longer than necessary, like the world could be held in that tiny contact.
It was woman-shaped. Woman-made. Woman-understood.
My stomach dropped a fraction—not with dread, exactly.
With clarity.
Carl glanced at me as the others began arguing about dessert like it was a constitutional matter.
“You alright?” he asked quietly, like he’d noticed the shift.
I looked at him.
He deserved honesty. The real kind, not the kind that patted a man on the head and sent him away confused.
“I am,” I said. Then I inhaled, steady. “But I need to tell you something, before this turns into… anything.”
His face changed—subtle, bracing. “Okay.”
I let myself be blunt. It was kinder.
“You’re lovely,” I said. “You’ve done everything right. You’re not a jerk.”
A flicker of pain crossed his mouth anyway. He tried to hide it. He wasn’t very good at lying.
I didn’t rush.
“But my happiness,” I said, and my voice softened despite myself, “is not shaped like you.”
He held my gaze.
For a second he looked like he wanted to bargain. Then he exhaled, long and controlled, and nodded once.
“Right,” he said. “Thank you for telling me straight.”
Relief loosened in my chest so sharply it almost hurt. Not because I’d won. Because I hadn’t lied.
He gave a small, honest smile. “Still… I’m glad I met you.”
I returned it. “Me too.”
And because he was decent, he didn’t make it ugly.
Because I was me, I didn’t pretend it was anything but what it was.
Not all blokes were jerks.
Some were genuinely good.
But goodness wasn’t the same thing as right.
And I’d finally decided I wasn’t going to confuse the two ever again.
End Scene 40.
Notes26-02-06rv1¶
1st Person¶
[26-02-07]
Scene 40 — “Not Shaped Like You” (Sarah POV, 1st person, past tense)
He turned up at Wardrobe with a tool belt and a polite expression.
I noticed both.
Not because I was shallow—please—but because years of navigating men had taught me competence came in different flavours: loud competence that wanted a medal, and quiet competence that just got on with the job.
This one looked like the second kind.
Mara pointed him toward the back wall where the lights had been flickering like a haunted-house feature. He listened. He nodded. He asked one sensible question. Then he got to work without making anyone’s day harder than it already was.
I found myself watching him between stitches.
Not in a hungry way.
In a curious way. Like: Is this what it looks like when a bloke is normal? Because the bar was low enough to trip over.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and looked at Mara—not at Celeste, not at me, not at whichever woman happened to be nearest—as if the authority in the room was obvious to him.
“All sorted,” he said. “That fitting-room circuit was loose. I re-terminated it. Should be stable now.”
Mara gave him a brief nod. “Good.”
He smiled—small, contained. “Carl.”
I gave him a look. “Sarah.”
His gaze flicked to my hands—needle, thread, the precision of my work—then back to my face.
“You make that look… easy,” he said.
I snorted. “It’s not.”
“I figured,” he said, and there was no condescension in it. Just respect. “Still. It’s good work.”
He didn’t overdo it. He didn’t flirt like it was a performance. He didn’t scan my body like he was shopping.
He just… spoke to me like I was a person.
Which, depressingly, narrowed the field.
Later—because Celeste had the subtlety of a freight train when she wanted something to happen—there was an invitation that wasn’t exactly an invitation.
“Come out with us,” Celeste said, like she was scheduling a meeting. “Saturday. Somewhere with shade. Sarah needs feeding. You too, if you’re not feral.”
Carl’s eyebrows went up, amused. “That’s an option?”
“It’s always an option,” Celeste said. “Most people choose better.”
I rolled my eyes, but I heard myself say, “Alright then,” as if I wasn’t curious.
The date—if that’s what it was—was easy.
Carl picked a place that wasn’t trying too hard. He arrived on time. He asked questions and actually waited for answers. He didn’t fill silence like it was a threat. When I teased him, he laughed without trying to win.
And to my surprise, I didn’t feel like I had to armour myself.
That should’ve felt like a relief.
Instead it felt like standing in warm water and realising you’d forgotten what warm felt like.
The trouble began about twenty minutes in, when Celeste texted:
where are you
I stared at it.
Of course.
I hadn’t even replied when Bree sent a photo: Bree and Lily somewhere bright and smug, holding iced coffees like trophies.
You better not be having fun without us 😘
I looked up to find Carl watching me with mild curiosity, not suspicion.
“Your… friends?” he asked.
I exhaled. “My… workplace. It’s a women’s atelier. They behave like a flock.”
Carl’s smile was warm. “Sounds… intense.”
“It is,” I said. “And occasionally delightful.”
A minute later, Celeste and Charli actually appeared—because apparently the universe had decided I wasn’t allowed one uncomplicated experience.
Celeste spotted us and did that crisp, predatory pause she did when she was assessing a scene.
Charli hovered half a step behind, polite as a ghost.
Bree and Lily arrived shortly after, laughing too loudly and immediately taking control of the table arrangement as if it were a military operation. Chairs scraped. Bags moved. Decisions made.
Carl stood when they came over. He introduced himself. He shook hands. He didn’t leer, didn’t interrupt, didn’t puff up.
He was… good.
A decent bloke.
The kind of man you could bring home to a mother who was difficult to impress.
I watched him hold his own without pushing. I watched him make space for the women without vanishing. I watched him listen with his whole face, like he was used to women having opinions and didn’t take it personally.
And then the truth arrived, quiet as gravity.
He wasn’t wrong.
He just wasn’t mine.
Because the warmth I felt that night—what steadied me, what made something in my chest soften—wasn’t Carl’s attention.
It was the way Charli leaned into Celeste’s shoulder when Celeste murmured something at her ear.
It was the way Celeste reached for Charli’s water glass without thinking, refilled it, slid it back—care like muscle memory.
It was the flicker in Bree’s eyes when Lily touched her wrist. The way Lily’s thumb stayed there half a second longer than necessary, like the world could be held in that tiny contact.
It was woman-shaped. Woman-made. Woman-understood.
My stomach dropped a fraction—not with dread, exactly.
With clarity.
Carl glanced at me as the others began arguing about dessert like it was a constitutional matter.
“You alright?” he asked quietly, like he’d noticed the shift.
I looked at him.
He deserved honesty. The real kind, not the kind that patted a man on the head and sent him away confused.
“I am,” I said. Then I inhaled, steady. “But I need to tell you something, before this turns into… anything.”
His face changed—subtle, bracing. “Okay.”
I let myself be blunt. It was kinder.
“You’re lovely,” I said. “You’ve done everything right. You’re not a jerk.”
A flicker of pain crossed his mouth anyway. He tried to hide it. He wasn’t very good at lying.
I didn’t rush.
“But my happiness,” I said, and my voice softened despite myself, “is not shaped like you.”
He held my gaze.
For a second he looked like he wanted to bargain. Then he exhaled, long and controlled, and nodded once.
“Right,” he said. “Thank you for telling me straight.”
Relief loosened in my chest so sharply it almost hurt. Not because I’d won. Because I hadn’t lied.
He gave a small, honest smile. “Still… I’m glad I met you.”
I returned it. “Me too.”
And because he was decent, he didn’t make it ugly.
Because I was me, I didn’t pretend it was anything but what it was.
Not all blokes were jerks.
Some were genuinely good.
But goodness wasn’t the same thing as right.
And I’d finally decided I wasn’t going to confuse the two ever again.
End Scene 40.
Notes26-02-07ev1¶
¶
Emily note:
Done. Here’s the same Scene 40, but with the silvery laughter moment sharpened into a physical, involuntary “tell”—throat, ribs, skin, pulse—so it reads like a body answering before Sarah can be civil about it. 🖤✨
Scene 40 — “Not Shaped Like You” (Sarah POV, 1st person, past tense)
He turned up at Wardrobe with a tool belt and a polite expression.
I noticed both.
Not because I was shallow—please—but because years of navigating men had taught me competence came in different flavours: loud competence that wanted a medal, and quiet competence that just got on with the job.
This one looked like the second kind.
Mara pointed him toward the back wall where the lights had been flickering like a haunted-house feature. He listened. He nodded. He asked one sensible question. Then he got to work without making anyone’s day harder than it already was.
I found myself watching him between stitches.
Not in a hungry way.
In a measuring way. Like: Is this what it looks like when a bloke is normal? Because the bar was low enough to trip over.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and looked at Mara—not at Celeste, not at me, not at whichever woman happened to be nearest—as if the authority in the room was obvious to him.
“All sorted,” he said. “That fitting-room circuit was loose. I re-terminated it. Should be stable now.”
Mara gave him a brief nod. “Good.”
He smiled—small, contained. “Carl.”
I gave him a look. “Sarah.”
His gaze flicked to my hands—needle, thread, the precision of my work—then back to my face.
“You make that look… easy,” he said.
I snorted. “It’s not.”
“I figured,” he said, and there was no condescension in it. Just respect. “Still. It’s good work.”
He didn’t overdo it. He didn’t flirt like it was a performance. He didn’t scan my body like he was shopping.
He just spoke to me like I was a person.
Which, depressingly, narrowed the field.
Later—because Mara had her own kind of matchmaking impulse, blunt as a gavel—she said, without looking up from her cutting:
“Buy her a coffee.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
Mara’s shears made their soft, decisive bite through fabric. “You heard me.”
Carl glanced between us, like this was the most normal instruction in the world. “If that’s allowed.”
“It’s allowed,” Mara said. “She needs feeding. You look like you do too.”
I rolled my eyes because it was that or smile, and smiled because apparently I was curious.
So we agreed on Saturday. Daylight. Somewhere with shade. Somewhere public enough that my life couldn’t accidentally become a man’s idea of “progress.”
The date—if that’s what it was—was easy.
Carl picked a place that wasn’t trying too hard. He arrived on time. He asked questions and actually waited for answers. He didn’t fill silence like it was a threat. When I teased him, he laughed without trying to win.
To my surprise, I didn’t feel like I had to armour myself.
That should’ve felt like a relief.
Instead it felt like standing in warm water and realising you’d forgotten what warm felt like.
Not because the water was wrong.
Because I was standing there, and my body was doing… nothing.
I watched him talk—hands steady around his mug, eyes on my face, not my chest. He listened like listening was a real action, not a pause before his turn.
He was, objectively, about as good as they came.
And I felt… flat.
Not disgust. Not fear. Not irritation.
Just the quiet absence of pull.
It wasn’t even sadness at first. It was information, arriving the way a seam tells you it’s off by a millimetre: subtle, undeniable, impossible to argue with once you’ve seen it.
Carl smiled at something I said, and there was a soft warmth in it—care that didn’t ask to be applauded.
I tried to let my body meet it.
It didn’t.
Then, from a table behind us, I heard it.
A woman’s laugh—silvery, unselfconscious, the kind that made the air lift.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even near. It was just… alive.
And my body answered before my mind could tidy it up.
A quickening low in my ribs. A small heat-flash under my skin. My throat tightened the way it did when I heard a perfect note land.
I swallowed, irritated—because it was instant, because it was honest, because it was mine.
The laugh came again, softer, followed by a murmur—another woman’s voice, close and fond—and something in me leaned toward it like a compass needle deciding north.
Not romantically, not as a daydream.
As recognition.
As want.
I sat there with my coffee cooling and realised, with a strange softness, that the sadness rising in me wasn’t for myself.
It was for Carl.
Because he’d done nothing wrong.
He’d turned up with quiet competence. He’d treated women like people. He’d been present, steady, decent.
And the decisive part of what I wanted—what my body wanted, what my future wanted—was not shaped like him.
Carl’s gaze sharpened a fraction, not suspicious, just attentive. He’d noticed the shift. He was the kind of man who noticed things because he paid attention, not because he wanted leverage.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
I looked at him.
He deserved honesty. The real kind, not the kind that patted a man on the head and sent him away confused.
“I am,” I said. Then I inhaled, steady. “But I need to tell you something, before this turns into… anything.”
His face changed—subtle, bracing. “Okay.”
I kept my voice level. It was kinder.
“You’re lovely,” I said. “You’ve done everything right. You’re not a jerk.”
A flicker of pain crossed his mouth anyway. He tried to hide it. He wasn’t very good at lying.
I didn’t rush.
“But my happiness,” I said, and my voice softened despite myself, “is not shaped like you.”
He held my gaze.
For a second he looked like he wanted to bargain—not because he was entitled, but because people reached for the tools they had when something slipped. Then he exhaled, long and controlled, and nodded once.
“Right,” he said. “Thank you for telling me straight.”
Relief loosened in my chest so sharply it almost hurt. Not because I’d won.
Because I hadn’t lied.
He gave a small, honest smile. “Still… I’m glad I met you.”
I returned it. “Me too.”
We stood outside in the clean afternoon light. He offered his hand, straightforward and old-fashioned.
I took it.
The handshake was firm, respectful. No theatrics. No punishment. No attempt to make it mean more than it did.
Then he stepped back, gave me one last nod, and walked away without making it ugly.
And because I was me, I didn’t pretend it was anything but what it was.
Not all blokes were jerks.
Some were genuinely good.
But goodness wasn’t the same thing as right.
And now I knew—properly knew—that what I wanted wasn’t simply “a relationship” to fill space.
It was a kind of warmth. A kind of beauty. A kind of yes.
My future was woman-shaped.
End Scene 40.
If you’d like an even sharper needle, we can make the bodily tell one notch quieter (less “heat-flash,” more micro-reactive: a pulse in the wrist, a breath catching) — but this version already reads like involuntary truth without melodrama.
Notes26-02-12rv1¶
Final Revision¶
😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
[26-02-12]
Scene 40 — “Not Shaped Like You” (Sarah POV, 1st person, past tense)
🩸 Not Shaped Like You 🩸
[ Sarah ]
He turned up at Wardrobe with a tool belt and a polite expression.
I noticed both.
Not because I was shallow—please—but because years of navigating men had taught me competence came in different flavours: loud competence that wanted a medal, and quiet competence that just got on with the job.
This one looked like the second kind.
Mara pointed him toward the back wall where the lights had been flickering like a haunted-house feature. He listened. He nodded. He asked one sensible question. Then he got to work without making anyone’s day harder than it already was.
I found myself watching him between stitches: not in a hungry but measuring way. Like: Is this what it looks like when a bloke is normal? Because the bar was low enough to trip over.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and looked at Mara—not at Celeste, not at me, not at whichever woman happened to be nearest—as if the authority in the room was obvious to him.
“All sorted,” he said. “That fitting-room circuit was loose. I re-terminated it. Should be stable now.”
Mara gave him a brief nod. “Good.”
He glanced at me, smiled—small, contained. “Carl.”
I gave him a look without turning my head. “Sarah.”
His gaze flicked to my hands—needle, thread, the precision of my work—then back to my face.
“You make that look… easy.”
I snorted. “It’s not.”
“Yeah, I reckon,” he said, and there was no condescension in it, just respect. “Still. It’s good work.”
He didn’t overdo it. He didn’t flirt like it was a performance. He didn’t scan my body like he was shopping. He actually spoke to me like I was a person, which, depressingly, narrowed the field.
Mara had her own kind of matchmaking impulse. She said, without looking up from her cutting, blunt as a gavel:
“Buy her a coffee.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
Mara’s shears made a soft, decisive bite through fabric, then stopped. She looked directly at Carl.
“You heard me.”
Carl glanced between us.
“If that’s allowed.”
“It’s allowed,” Mara said. “She needs feeding. You look like you do too.”
I rolled my eyes because it was that or smile, and then, smiled because I was curious. We agreed on Saturday. Daylight. Somewhere with shade. Somewhere public enough that my life couldn’t accidentally become a man’s idea of “progress.”
The date—if that’s what it was—was easy.
Carl picked a place that wasn’t trying too hard. He arrived on time. He asked questions and actually waited for answers. He didn’t fill silence like it was a threat. When I teased him, he laughed, genuine. I didn’t feel like I had to armour myself.
That should’ve felt like a relief. Instead it felt like standing in warm water and realising you’d forgotten what warm felt like. Not because the water was wrong.
Because I was standing there, and my body was doing… nothing.
I watched him talk—hands steady around his mug, eyes on my face, not my chest. He listened like listening was a real action, not a pause before his turn. He was, objectively, about as good a man as a woman could ever hope for.
And I felt… nothing.
Not the absence of disgust or fear.
Just a quiet absence of pull.
I carefully studied the frank, friendly face before me. Kindness, gentleness, openness: it was all there.
And I felt… nothing.
Carl smiled at something I said, and there was a soft warmth in it—care that didn’t ask to be applauded.
I tried to let my body meet it.
It didn’t.
Then, from a table behind us, I heard it. A woman’s laugh—silvery, unselfconscious, the kind that made the air lift. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even near. It was just… alive. And my body answered before my mind could tidy it up.
A quickening low in my ribs. A small heat-flash under my skin. My throat tightened the way it did when I heard a perfect note land. I swallowed, irritated—because it was instant, because it was honest, because it was mine.
The laugh came again, softer, followed by a murmur—another woman’s voice, close and fond—and something in me leaned toward it like a compass needle deciding north. Not romantically, not as a daydream but sadly: as recognition.
As want.
It wasn’t even sadness at first. It was information, arriving the way a seam tells you it’s off by a millimetre: subtle, undeniable, impossible to argue with once you’ve seen it.
I sat there with my coffee cooling and realised, with a strange softness, that the sadness rising in me wasn’t for myself.
It was for Carl.
Because he’d done things… correctly. He had turned up with quiet competence. He treated women like people. He was there, in the present, steady, decent.
And the decisive part of what I wanted—what my body wanted, what my future wanted—was not shaped like him.
Carl’s gaze sharpened a fraction, not suspicious, just attentive. He’d noticed the shift. He was the kind of man who noticed things because he paid attention, not because he wanted leverage.
“You right?” he asked quietly. I looked at him.He deserved honesty. The real kind, not the kind that patted a man on the head and sent him away confused.
“I am,” I said with a quick nod. Then I inhaled. “But I need to tell you something, before we go much further.”
His face changed—subtle, bracing. “Okay.”
I kept my voice level. It was kinder.
“You’re a lovely man, Carl,” I said. “You do everything… right.”
A flicker of pain crossed his mouth anyway. He tried to hide it. He wasn’t very good at lying.
I didn’t rush.
“But my happiness,” I said, and my voice softened despite myself, “is not shaped like you.”
He held my gaze.
For a second he looked like he wanted to bargain: not because he was entitled, but because people reached for the tools they had when something slipped. Then he exhaled, long and controlled, and nodded once.
“Right,” he said. “Thank you for telling me straight.”
Relief loosened in my chest so sharply it almost hurt. He gave a small, honest smile.“Still… I’m glad I met you.”
I returned it. “Me too.”
We stood outside in the clean afternoon light. He offered his hand, straightforward and old-fashioned.
I took it.
The handshake was firm, respectful. No theatrics or punishment, no attempt to make it mean more than it did. Then he stepped back, gave me one last nod, and walked away without making it ugly. And because I was me, I didn’t pretend it was anything but what it was.
Not all blokes were jerks.
Some were genuinely good.
But goodness wasn’t the same thing as right.
And now I knew—properly knew—that what I wanted wasn’t simply “a relationship” to fill space.
It was a kind of warmth. A kind of beauty. A kind of yes.
And that yes was woman-shaped.
End Scene 40.
Published¶
[260212]¶
🩸 Not Shaped Like You 🩸 [ Sarah ]
He turned up at Wardrobe with a tool belt and a polite expression.
I noticed both.
Not because I was shallow—please—but because years of navigating men had taught me competence came in different flavours: loud competence that wanted a medal, and quiet competence that just got on with the job.
This one looked like the second kind.
Mara pointed him toward the back wall where the lights had been flickering like a haunted-house feature. He listened. He nodded. He asked one sensible question. Then he got to work without making anyone’s day harder than it already was.
I found myself watching him between stitches: not in a hungry but measuring way. Like: Is this what it looks like when a bloke is normal?
Because the bar was low enough to trip over.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and looked at Mara—not at Celeste, not at me, not at whichever woman happened to be nearest—as if the authority in the room was obvious to him.
“All sorted,” he said. “That fitting-room circuit was loose. I re-terminated it. Should be stable now.”
Mara gave him a brief nod. “Good.”
He glanced at me, smiled—small, contained. “Carl.”
I gave him a look without turning my head. “Sarah.”
His gaze flicked to my hands—needle, thread, the precision of my work—then back to my face.
“You make that look… easy.”
I snorted. “It’s not.”
“Yeah, I reckon,” he said, and there was no condescension in it, just respect. “Still. It’s good work.”
He didn’t overdo it. He didn’t flirt like it was a performance. He didn’t scan my body like he was shopping. He actually spoke to me like I was a person, which, depressingly, narrowed the field.
Mara had her own kind of matchmaking impulse. She said, without looking up from her cutting, blunt as a gavel:
“Buy her a coffee.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
Mara’s shears made a soft, decisive bite through fabric, then stopped. She looked directly at Carl.
“You heard me.”
Carl glanced between us.
“If that’s allowed.”
“It’s allowed,” Mara said. “She needs feeding. You look like you do too.”
I rolled my eyes because it was that or smile, and then, smiled because I was curious. We agreed on Saturday. Daylight. Somewhere with shade. Somewhere public enough that my life couldn’t accidentally become a man’s idea of “progress.”
The date—if that’s what it was—was easy.
Carl picked a place that wasn’t trying too hard. He arrived on time. He asked questions and actually waited for answers. He didn’t fill silence like it was a threat. When I teased him, he laughed, genuine. I didn’t feel like I had to armour myself.
That should’ve felt like a relief. Instead it felt like standing in warm water and realising you’d forgotten what warm felt like.
Not because the water was wrong.
Because I was standing there, and my body was doing… nothing.
I watched him talk—hands steady around his mug, eyes on my face, not my chest. He listened like listening was a real action, not a pause before his turn. He was, objectively, about as good a man as a woman could ever hope for.
And I felt… nothing.
Not the absence of disgust or fear.
Just a quiet absence of pull.
I carefully studied the frank, friendly face before me. Kindness, gentleness, openness: it was all there.
And I felt… nothing.
Carl smiled at something I said, and there was a soft warmth in it—care that didn’t ask to be applauded.
I tried to let my body meet it.
It didn’t.
Then, from a table behind us, I heard it. A woman’s laugh—silvery, unselfconscious, the kind that made the air lift. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even near. It was just… alive.
And my body answered before my mind could tidy it up.
A quickening low in my ribs. A small heat-flash under my skin. My throat tightened the way it did when I heard a perfect note land. I swallowed, irritated—because it was instant, because it was honest, because it was mine.
The laugh came again, softer, followed by a murmur—another woman’s voice, close and fond—and something in me leaned toward it like a compass needle deciding north. Not romantically, not as a daydream but sadly: as recognition.
As want.
It wasn’t even sadness at first. It was information, arriving the way a seam tells you it’s off by a millimetre: subtle, undeniable, impossible to argue with once you’ve seen it.
I sat there with my coffee cooling and realised, with a strange softness, that the sadness rising in me wasn’t for myself.
It was for Carl.
Because he’d done things… correctly. He had turned up with quiet competence. He treated women like people. He was there, in the present, steady, decent.
And the decisive part of what I wanted—what my body wanted, what my future wanted—was not shaped like him.
Carl’s gaze sharpened a fraction, not suspicious, just attentive. He’d noticed the shift. He was the kind of man who noticed things because he paid attention, not because he wanted leverage.
“You right?” he asked quietly.
I looked at him.He deserved honesty. The real kind, not the kind that patted a man on the head and sent him away confused.
I gave a quick nod. Then I inhaled. “I need to tell you something, before we go much further.”
His face changed—subtle, bracing. “Okay.”
I kept my voice level. It was kinder.
“You’re a lovely man, Carl,” I said. “You do everything… right.”
A flicker of pain crossed his mouth anyway. He tried to hide it. He wasn’t very good at lying.
I didn’t rush.
“But my happiness,” I said, and my voice softened despite myself, “is not shaped like you.”
He held my gaze.
For a second he looked like he wanted to bargain: not because he was entitled, but because people reached for the tools they had when something slipped. Then he exhaled, long and controlled.
“Right,” he said with a nod. “Thank you for telling me straight.”
Relief loosened in my chest so sharply it almost hurt. He gave a small, honest smile.“Still… I’m glad I met you.”
I returned it. “Me too.”
We stood outside in the afternoon light. He offered his hand, straightforward and old-fashioned.
I took it.
The handshake was firm, respectful, no attempt to make it mean more than it did.
Then he stepped back, gave me one last nod, and walked away without making it ugly. And because I was me, I didn’t pretend it was anything but what it was.
Not all blokes were jerks. Some were genuinely good. Like Carl.
But goodness wasn’t the same thing as right.
And now I knew—properly knew—that what I wanted wasn’t simply “a relationship” to fill space.
It was a kind of warmth. A kind of beauty. A kind of yes.
And that yes was woman-shaped.