The Deep End—S1¶

— Robyn —¶

😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 🌿

🔑 Notes 🌿¶

Emotional temperature:
Charli is homesick for Celeste, oblivious to surroundings.
Sarah misses Lauren but is sharp, focused, aware of Charli's naïveté.

Inciting Shift:
On deboarding, a man offers to get Charli's bag down from luggage rack, Sarah intervenes (first of many)
Purchasing tickets, Charli finds J'Adore, dabs on wrists, scent is noticed by a man
Jostled in train to Eagle Junction, Sarah intervenes
Finally, discussion on being aware in public places

Internal Calibration:
Charli had been so busy thinking, she hadn't been in the moment with Sarah
Lights go on during discussion about staying alert

Choices:
Initially shrinking

Power Adjustment:
Shrinking stopped (need to just be aware)

Exit Note:
As they get off the train in Landsborough, a young man smiles at Charli. She doesn't know what to do and automatically smiles back. Still has much to learn.

[One Sentence] In this scene, Charli becomes aware that being in public means being aware of your surroundings because you are now visible.

Visible¶

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We have begun our descent into Brisbane..."

Although my heart did a flip as the engine noise seemed to quieten, I felt a numbness instead of excitement.

How amazing it would be to share this moment with her.

The wing flapped vigorously as if trying to get down out of the grey clouds as we bumped and swayed in our seats. I shot Sarah a nervous grin. Her fingers gripped the handle firmly, her lips frozen in a brave thin line. It wasn't until the wheels hit the ground with a reassuring thump that that grip loosened.

The rain on the window obscured the view. The instant the wheels stopped moving some passengers started doing that silly thing where they think that getting out of their seats is going to ensure them getting off the plane faster. Sarah remained immobile, her lips no longer clamped together.

Sarah was looking at her phone.

"Fiona apologises... she won't be able to pick us up here. We'll have to take the train to... Landsborough."

Sarah got out of seat and reached up for her carry-on. I slid out of my seat and stood, my bum a bit achy from sitting so long. I gave it a quick rub and stretched up to retrieve my bag, but it had slid to the back of the overhead luggage thing.

"Can I give you a hand with that?"

A young man with a calico shirt and sunburnt neck was smiling at me, so I smiled back.

"Yes, please..." I started, when Sarah abruptly reached up and pulled down my bag. She shot the young man an expression that faintly resembled a smile.

"Thanks for the offer, mate," she said, placing herself between me and the young man.

Something about the whole thing seemed unusual, but I shrugged it off. Once we got in the concourse, we walked briskly, as if late for an appointment. We found ourselves at the baggage claim in no time. I was focused on our bags, but Sarah seemed a bit distracted. It wasn't until we were hurrying along to the train terminal that she spoke.

"Did you notice..." she asked, interrupting herself at my questioning look.

"Notice what?"

"Never mind," she said quickly. We had only just bought the tickets and gotten on the train when it left. It was full: all seats taken. I stood in the middle of the exit area. People were crowding from all sides. I felt Sarah's hand firmly pull me to the side of the carriage. Her eyes looked tired. The train stopped, and the doors opened, letting more people and hot sticky air in. The air-conditioning did its best to tone down the sour smell of travel-weary bodies but was losing the battle.

At Eagle Junction, we stepped out of the train onto the hot concrete of the station platform.

"Which way is Landsborough?" I asked the man in a ticket office.

"You need to be on that platform there," he said with a thick accent. "Train leaves in about half an hour."

"Thank you."

I dug through my purse for the credit card and felt something cold, small, precious. I opened my bag wider. Next to my credit card was a little white vial.

J’Adore.

My heart did a flip. For a second it was like Celeste was there with me, close enough to lean into. I passed the station master my card wordlessly, staring at the vial as if Celeste's eyes were going to magically appear.

"Miss?" I looked up: a hand with my card accompanied by a rather impatient face. I bit my lip and pocketing my card, retreated to a shady spot to wait for the train, gripping the little white vial as if it was a lifeline.

I wanted her here. I held the little white vial to my face, eyes closed, breathing in plastic and memory, and then—without thinking—sprayed my wrists. Two tiny mists. Soft. Private.

I heard Sarah’s intake of breath before I saw her.

“What?” I said, already bracing. “Is that… bad?”

“That certainly smells nice, love,” a man said behind me—too close, too casual.

Heat climbed into my neck. I dropped my hands to my sides as if I could hide the smell by hiding the skin. Sarah’s look was a bit cold, but it wasn't anger as she positioned herself between me and the platform. I bit my lip and looked at the concrete.

The train screamed into the station. Sarah touched my elbow—firm, guiding—and steered us toward a carriage with space, putting her body between mine and the other people on the platform like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Next Bit¶

The carriage was quite noisy for a while. I stared out the window, only occasionally glancing at Sarah, who quickly looked away. Eventually, a lot of passengers left the train and it became almost pleasant, except for that sour smell left behind by someone being very frugal with water usage: clearly not his week for a bath.

The business district look began to turn into gum trees and infrequent houses when Sarah spoke.

"How're you travelling, Charli?"

I turned to look at her. Her eyes were still tired, but her smile was as warm as a Victorian sunset.

"Okay, I guess," I said. "I didn't realise it was going to be like this, to be honest."

"What did you think?"

I shrugged. I hadn't actually even thought about it at all: missing Celeste crowded out everything else.

"You miss her, don't you?" Sarah said. I couldn't look at her: my throat suddenly gripped by a painful spasm. As i brought my hand up to wipe my cheeks, I smelled... her. On my wrists. And thought of the man on the platform behind me.

I looked up: Sarah's eyes were still on me.

"I'm afraid you've sort-of fallen into the deep end of the pool, hun," she said, "and we need to get you knowing how to swim really quick." She paused, pursing her lips as she studied me. "It's not like you do stupid things, just... not real safe."

My heart sank, and my face along with it. Sarah touched my hand.

"I'm sorry, that was unfair of me. You weren't to know. I get it: this is all new to you. Being a woman in Wardrobe is a completely different thing to being a woman in the wilds of, well, anywhere else, really." She held her forehead for a second like she was worried her head would suddenly twist off. "I don't think any of us realised the challenge you would be facing."

I felt a dark cloud settle into my body.

"What do you mean?"

Sarah sighed. Opened her mouth to speak, then sighed again. She closed her eyes with a grimace, balling her hand into a fist.

"Right then, Charli." Her tone was not soft, but clear. No misunderstandings. "Here's the deal. You see, you don't see certain things that, well, you need to be aware of."

I blushed, remembering her face when I'd J'Adored my wrists.

"Oh, I'm such an idiot, I'm so..." She stopped me.

"No, hun, it's so much more than that. I mean, I get you were... wrecked about leaving Celeste behind, but..." She paused, struggling for words.

"What?"

"It's simple. Actually, so simple I'm surprised we didn't think of it before we left. Charli, you are new: painful, obviously, cluelessly new at being a girl."

Nothing what she'd just said made any sense to me.

Yes, I was new at it. So what?

There was just a tinge of exasperation in her look, now. She nodded quickly, as if she'd found the missing link to my understanding of the issue.

"Look, girls grow up learning all about how to detect danger. Grope-y guys, creeps that rub up against you in trains, that sort of thing. And you're wandering along like you're on a garden path surrounded by daisies. It's not like there's danger everywhere, but if there was, you have a bullseye on your back."

Danger? What had I missed?

Review¶

Emotional temperature:
I felt a numbness instead of excitement. How nice it would be to share this moment with her: I'd be excited right now. Big sigh. Oh well, let's look at the pretty clouds as we fly through them.

At the ticket kiosk in Eagle Junction, I dug through my purse for the credit card and felt something cold, small, precious. I opened my bag wider. J'Adore. My heart did a flip. I felt Celeste there, with me, as I held the little white vial. I wanted to hide myself in that little vial, just to feel her warmth again. Held it to my face, eyes closed, then quickly sprayed my wrists, tiny little mists. I heard Sarah's gasp before I saw her eyes of dismay.

"What?" I didn't ask but I could tell I'd almost certainly stuffed up somewhere along the line. "What did I do wrong now?"

"That certainly smells nice, love," I heard a voice boom behind me. I cringed, and glanced at Sarah. Her face read: "now do you get it?" I squeezed my eyes shut, frozen in place.

Just then, the train roared past, coming to a screeching halt. Sarah gently propelled us to a reasonable empty carriage.

I carefully

Inciting Shift: * On deboarding, a man offers to get Charli's bag down from luggage rack, Sarah intervenes (first of many) * Purchasing tickets, Charli finds J'Adore, dabs on wrists, scent is noticed by another man * Jostled in train to Eagle Junction, Sarah intervenes * Finally, discussion on being aware in public places

Internal Calibration: * Charli had been so busy thinking, she hadn't been in the moment with Sarah * Lights go on during discussion about staying alert

Choices: * Initially shrinking

Power Adjustment: * Shrinking stopped (need to just be aware)

Exit Note: As they get off the train in Landsborough, a young man smiles at Charli. She doesn't know what to do and automatically smiles back. Still has much to learn.

[One Sentence] In this scene, Charli becomes aware that being in public means being aware of your surroundings because you are now visible.

Visible¶

Charli, 1st Revision¶

[26-02-24]

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We have begun our descent into Brisbane…”

The engine note thinned, the plane easing down as if the captain was pumping the brakes. My heart did a flip — and then… nothing. Emptiness. A numb, floating blankness that made my hands feel slightly distant.

She should be here.

The wings flapped bravely and the cabin rattled softly, like the whole fuselage was clearing its throat. We dipped through grey cloud and the light went flat and metallic. I shot Sarah a nervous grin, the kind you give when you want to borrow steadiness from someone else.

Sarah didn’t grin back. Her fingers were wrapped around the armrest like it owed her money and an apology, her mouth, a thin line.

When the wheels hit the runway — that solid, honest thump — I felt her grip loosen. Not much. Just enough to tell me she was human.

Rain smeared the windows into watercolour. The moment we stopped rolling, half the plane stood up like standing would summon the exit faster. Sarah stayed seated. She exhaled through her nose, eyes on her phone, unbothered by other people’s impatience.

“Change of plan,” she said. “No pickup. Never-mind: we’ll take the train.”

My legs were stiff when I stood — my bum numb from the seat — and I rubbed at the ache without thinking, then caught myself, suddenly aware of my own body in a public aisle.

Sarah lifted her carry-on down in one smooth motion. I reached for mine and my bag had slid back, wedged just out of reach.

“Need a hand?”

A young man leaned in, all sunburnt neck and an eager smile. I smiled back automatically — because, why not, my mouth already opening.

“Yes, ple—”

Sarah’s arm went up. My bag came down. Quick, tidy, handle in my hand.

“Thanks for the offer, mate,” she said, and it was polite enough to pass as friendliness. But she placed herself half a step between us like it was choreography she’d learned years ago.

The young man’s smile faltered. I looked at the aisle floor with my luggage handle suddenly feeling awkward in my hand, trying to work out why my stomach had tightened.

We moved through the concourse at Sarah’s pace: brisk. Sarah's eyes were straight in front of her, purposeful, not looking at anyone. Signs. Doors. Escalators. She didn’t hold my hand or hover. She just… stayed close, as if intent on filling any space other people might try to step into.

At the first train, it was packed. Heat and damp wool and the sour tang of travel sweat and over-worked deodorant. Bodies pressed in, shoulders brushing, someone’s backpack zip scraping my arm. I planted my feet in the doorway area, bag hanging off one shoulder, and felt the old instinct tug at me — fold in, make smaller, disappear.

Sarah’s hand landed at my elbow. Firm. A correction, a direction: not a comfort. She shifted to the side, away from the open aisle, and I copied her — turned my body so my bag was in front of me, not behind. It was a tiny thing. But it made me feel less… accessible.

Sarah’s eyes flicked to my face, her lips tightened quickly in acknowledgement.

At Eagle Junction, the platform heat hit like opening an oven. Concrete radiated it back up through my shoes. I found the ticket office and asked which way, voice too soft in my own ears.

“Other platform,” the man said. “Half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

I dug through my purse for my card and my fingers found something cold, small, precious. There it was: a tiny white vial tucked beside my wallet like a secret.

J’Adore.

My heart did the flip again, but this time it landed somewhere. For a second it was like Celeste was close enough to lean into — like the scent could form a bridge back to Torquay.

I held the vial to my face, eyes closed. Plastic and memory. The thought of her made my throat ache.

Then — without thinking — I sprayed my wrists.

Two tiny mists. Soft. Private.

Sarah’s breath caught.

“What?” I said, already bracing. “Is that… bad?”

“That certainly smells nice, love,” a man said behind me — too close, too casual, as if the word belonged to him.

Heat climbed my neck. Cringing slightly, I dropped my hands to my sides as if hiding skin could hide scent. My eyes went to the concrete like it could swallow me.

Sarah's lips tightened again. Her face went cool in the way a door goes shut. She stepped in front of me as welcome as shade at noon. Practised. Almost... resigned.

The train screamed into the station.

Sarah touched my elbow — firm, guiding — and steered us toward a carriage towards the front of the train, her body between mine and the platform. We darted in, pulling our luggage like reluctant sheep behind us.

The carriage was full and loud for a long while — not music loud, just bodies loud. Just out of the pub chatter. Phone calls on speaker. A child kicking the seat somewhere behind me in a steady, cheerful rhythm. I stared out the window and tried to do my best 'commuter heading home' face.

Every now and then I glanced at Sarah. She glanced away almost immediately, as if she didn't want to provide an explanation.

Eventually the noise softened. The air didn’t get clean so much as… less lived-in. What was left behind was a sour, stale smell that had nothing to do with rain and everything to do with someone making a decision about soap and sticking with it.

The city started to loosen into gum trees and scattered houses. The light went softer.

Sarah shifted in her seat.

“How’re you travelling, Charli?”

I swallowed. My throat still felt tight in a way that wasn’t from the plane. “Okay,” I said with a tiny shrug, and then, because I was sure she could see it sitting right there in my chest, “I didn’t think it was going to be like this.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “What did you think?”

I shrugged again, still small. Missing Celeste had been a full-body thing — crowded, constant — like there wasn’t room left for anything else.

“You miss her,” Sarah said.

It wasn’t a question.

My eyes went hot. I looked down quickly and brought my hand up to rub the back of my neck: it felt like cast in iron.

And then, the smell hit me — J’Adore, still sitting on my wrists, faint but there — and with it the platform, the man’s voice behind me, that word like he owned it.

Love.

My stomach dipped. I shuddered, closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Sarah was watching me. When she spoke again her voice was lower, flatter.

“Right,” she said. “Perhaps we should talk about that.”

I made myself look at her. Swallowed. Hard. “About… perfume?”

“About you, hun,” she corrected, and it was so matter-of-fact it didn’t feel like an insult. “Out here.”

I felt my shoulders curl in without permission. Sarah noticed — I could tell she noticed — because her hand came down gently on my forearm, not comforting, just anchoring.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don't… fold up.” She glanced at the aisle, then back to me. “This is no time to make yourself smaller.”

I grimaced, my cheeks burning. I hated it. She could always see it happening. Sarah sighed once, a small sound. “Listen. You kind-of got thrown in at the deep end." She puffed, rubbed her eyebrows. "Wardrobe is… a managed environment. Women around you. Standards. Eyes on. Out here, you don’t get that. It's the wild west.”

I stared at her, didn’t speak. The train rattled, we swayed in our seats. She nodded toward my wrist.

“Perfume carries,” she said. “It shouts. So do smiles: they scream. It's about the best way to be visible even if you don’t mean to.”

My mouth opened and nothing came out. Sarah’s expression softened by half a degree.

“Hun, you weren't to know. You’re not in trouble,” she added, as if she could hear the shame forming. “You’re just… untrained.”

Untrained.

The word landed oddly as bad as a tightly stitched seam. It felt cruel even as it came from a kind heart. I looked down at my hands. Then — slowly — I pulled my handbag into me. I didn’t know why it made me feel better. It just did.

Sarah saw that too.

She didn’t comment.

That was her comment.

I stared out at the gum trees flashing past and tried to make my brain do two things at once: miss Celeste, and still be here.

“Okay,” I said finally, voice quiet. “So what do I do?”

Sarah’s mouth twitched again. “Here's what you don't do.”

I waited.

“Don't smile at strangers,” she said. “Want to be friendly? Choose who to be friendly to. Not just anyone.”

My throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t only sadness. It was something else — the sharp, uncomfortable feeling of realising I’d been walking around with my guard down because I didn’t know I was meant to have one.

The train hummed under my shoes, a steady vibration that made it impossible to forget I was moving.

I looked around properly this time. Not out the window: at the carriage. At who was left. Who was looking at their phones. Who wasn’t.

Sarah had only touched the surface. I could tell by the purse in her lips, the set of her jaw. She didn’t want to drown me in it all at once. I rested my arm on the window ledge and caught the faint scent on my wrist again.

For a second it twisted — platform, voice behind me — and I had to force myself to think harder, to bring Celeste’s face back into focus instead of that man’s.

I didn’t want the smell to mean carelessness.

I wanted it to mean her.

Visible¶

Charli, 2nd Revision¶

[26-02-24]

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We have begun our descent into Brisbane…”

The engine note thinned, the plane easing down as if the captain was pumping the brakes. I felt a hard thud in my chest — and then… nothing. Emptiness. A numb, floating blankness that made my hands feel slightly distant.

She should be here.

The wings flexed as if the plane was flapping its wings faster to get us through the clouds. Raindrops streaked along the window as the cabin rattled softly, like the whole fuselage was clearing its throat. We dipped under grey clouds and the light went flat and metallic. I shot Sarah a nervous grin, the kind you give when you want to borrow steadiness from someone else.

Sarah didn’t grin back. Her fingers were wrapped around the armrest like it owed her money and an apology, her mouth, a thin line.

When the wheels hit the runway — that solid, honest thump — and the engines roared at the rain, I felt her grip loosen. Not much, just enough to allow breathing to resume.

Rain smeared the windows into watercolour. The moment we stopped rolling, half the plane stood up like standing would summon the exit faster. Sarah stayed seated. She exhaled through her nose, eyes on her phone, unbothered by other people’s impatience.

“Change of plan,” she said. “No pickup. Never-mind: we’ll take the train.”

My body felt a little stiff when I stood — my bum numb from the seat — and I rubbed at the ache without thinking, then caught myself, suddenly aware of the public aisle.

Sarah lifted her carry-on down in one smooth motion. I reached for mine but my bag had slid back, wedged just out of reach.

“Need a hand?”

A young man leaned in, all sunburnt neck and eager smile. I smiled back automatically — because, why not — my mouth already opening.

“Yes, ple—”

Sarah’s arm went up. My bag came down. Quick, tidy, handle in my hand.

“Thanks for the offer, mate,” she said. It was polite enough to pass as friendliness.

The young man’s smile faltered. I looked at the aisle floor with my luggage handle suddenly feeling awkward in my hand, trying to work out why my stomach had tightened.

We moved through the concourse at Sarah’s pace: brisk. Sarah's eyes were straight in front of her, purposeful, not looking at anyone. Signs. Doors. Escalators. She didn’t hold my hand or hover, but just… stayed close, as if intent on filling space between us others might try to step into.

The first train was packed and steamy. The rain had stopped, but the damp air combined with heat and damp wool, leaving a sour tang aftertaste of travel sweat and over-worked deodorant. Bodies pressed in, shoulders brushing, someone’s backpack zip scraped my arm. I planted my feet in the doorway area gripping luggage handles, handbag hanging off one shoulder, and felt the old instinct tug at me — fold in, make smaller, disappear.

Sarah’s hand landed at my elbow. Firm. A correction, direction. She shifted to the side, away from the open aisle, and I copied her — turned my body so my bag was in front of me, not behind. It was a tiny thing, but it made me feel less… accessible.

Sarah’s eyes flicked to my face, her lips tightened quickly in acknowledgement.

By the time we reach Eagle Junction, the sun had come out. The platform heat hit like opening an oven. Drying concrete radiated it back up through my shoes. I found the ticket office and asked which way, voice too soft in my own ears.

“Last platform,” the man said, indicating. “Ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I dug through my purse for a breath mint and my fingers found something cold, small, precious. There it was: a tiny white vial tucked beside my wallet like a secret.

J’Adore.

Everything in me leaned towards home, towards a little flat in Torquay, towards her. For a second it was like Celeste was close enough to melt into. I held the vial to my face, eyes closed. The thought of her made my throat ache.

Then — without thinking — I sprayed my wrists.

Two tiny mists. Soft. Private.

Sarah’s breath caught.

“What?” I said softly, already bracing. “Is that… bad?”

“That certainly smells nice, love,” a man said behind me — too close, too casual, too familiar, as if the word belonged to him.

Heat climbed my neck. Cringing slightly, I dropped my hands to my sides as if hiding skin could hide scent. My eyes went to the concrete like it could form a wall around me.

Then, I glanced at Sarah. Her lips had tightened again, her face cool in the way a door goes shut. She stepped in front of me as welcome as shade at noon. Practised. Almost... resigned.

The train screamed into the station.

Sarah touched my elbow — firm, guiding — and steered us toward a carriage towards the front of the train, her body between mine and the platform. We darted in, pulling our luggage like reluctant sheep behind us.

The carriage was full and loud for a long while — not music loud, just bodies loud. Just out of the pub chatter. Phone calls on speaker. A child kicking the seat somewhere behind me in a steady, cheerful rhythm. I stared out the window and tried to do my best 'commuter heading home' face.

Every now and then I glanced at Sarah. She glanced away almost immediately, as if she didn't want to provide an explanation.

Eventually the noise softened. The air didn’t get clean so much as… less lived-in. What was left behind was a sour, stale smell that had nothing to do with rain and everything to do with someone making a decision about soap and sticking with it.

The city started to loosen into gum trees and scattered houses. The light went softer.

Sarah shifted in her seat.

“How’re you travelling, Charli?”

I swallowed. My throat still felt tight in a way that wasn’t from the plane. “Okay,” I said with a tiny shrug, and then, because I was sure she could see it sitting right there in my chest, “I didn’t think it was going to be like this.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “What did you think?”

I shrugged again, still small. Missing Celeste had been a full-body thing — crowded, constant — like there wasn’t room left for anything else.

“You miss her,” Sarah said.

It wasn’t a question.

My eyes went hot. I looked down quickly and brought my hand up to rub the back of my neck; it felt like cast iron.

And then, the smell hit me — J’Adore, still sitting on my wrists, faint but there — and with it the platform, the man’s voice behind me, that word like he owned it.

Love.

My stomach dipped. I shuddered, closed my eyes. When I opened them, Sarah was watching me. When she spoke again her voice was lower, flatter.

“Right,” she said. “Perhaps we should talk about that.”

I made myself look at her. Swallowed. Hard.

“About… perfume?”

“About you, hun,” she corrected, and it was so matter-of-fact it didn’t feel like an insult. “Out here.”

I felt my shoulders curl in without permission. Sarah noticed — I could tell she noticed — because her hand came down gently on my forearm, not comforting, just anchoring.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don't… fold up.” She glanced at the aisle, then back to me. “This is no time to make yourself smaller.”

I grimaced, my cheeks burning. I hated that she could always see it happening. Sarah sighed once, a small sound. “Listen. You kind-of got thrown in at the deep end." She puffed, and bit her nail. "Wardrobe is… a managed environment. Women around you. Standards. Eyes on. Out here, you don’t get that. It's the wild west.”

I stared at her, didn’t speak. The train rattled, we swayed in our seats. She nodded toward my wrist.

“Perfume carries,” she said. “It shouts. So do smiles: they scream. It's about the best way to be visible even if you don’t mean to.”

My mouth opened and nothing came out. Sarah’s expression softened by half a degree.

“Hun, you weren't to know. You’re not in trouble,” she added, as if she could hear the shame forming. “You’re just… untrained.”

Untrained.

The word landed oddly as bad as a tightly stitched seam. It felt cruel even as it came from a kind heart. I looked down at my hands. Then — slowly — I pulled my handbag into me. I didn’t know why it made me feel better. It just did.

Sarah saw that too.

She didn’t comment.

That was her comment.

I stared out at the gum trees flashing past and tried to make my brain do two things at once: miss Celeste, and still be here.

“Okay,” I said finally, voice quiet. “So what do I do?”

Sarah’s mouth twitched again. “Here's what you don't do.”

I waited.

“Don't smile at strangers,” she said. “Want to be friendly? Choose who to be friendly to. Not just anyone.”

My throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t only sadness. It was something else — the sharp, uncomfortable feeling of realising I’d been walking around with my guard down because I didn’t know I was meant to have one.

The train hummed under my shoes, a steady vibration that made it impossible to forget I was moving.

I looked around properly this time. Not out the window: at the carriage. At who was left. Who was looking at their phones. Who wasn’t.

Sarah had only touched the surface. I could tell by the purse in her lips, the set of her jaw. She didn’t want to drown me in it all at once. I rested my arm on the window ledge and caught the faint scent on my wrist again.

For a second it twisted — platform, voice behind me — and I had to force myself to think harder, to bring Celeste’s face back into focus instead of that man’s.

I didn’t want the smell to mean carelessness.

I wanted it to mean her.

Just then, Sarah's phone pinged. She glanced down at it and grinned.

"Celeste."

Published¶

🌷 🌸 🌺 Visible 🌷 🌸 🌺

[ Charli ]

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We have begun our descent into Brisbane…”

The engine note thinned, the plane easing down as if the captain was pumping the brakes. I felt a hard thud in my chest—and then… nothing. Emptiness. A numb, floating blankness that made my hands feel slightly distant.

She should be here.

The wings flexed, shouldering us through the cloud. We dipped under the clouds and raindrops streaked along the window. The cabin rattled softly, like the whole fuselage was clearing its throat, and the light went flat and metallic.

I shot Sarah a nervous grin, the kind you give when you want to borrow steadiness from someone else. Sarah didn’t grin back. Her fingers were wrapped around the armrest like it owed her money and an apology… her mouth, a thin line.

When the wheels hit the runway—that solid, honest thump—and the engines roared at the rain, I felt her grip loosen. Not much, just enough to allow breathing to resume.

Rain had smeared the windows into watercolour.

The moment we stopped rolling, half the plane stood up like standing would summon the exit faster. Sarah stayed seated. She exhaled through her nose, eyes on her phone, unbothered by other people’s impatience.

“Change of plan,” she said. “No pickup. Never-mind: we’ll take the train.”

My body felt a little stiff when I stood, my bum numb from the seat, and I rubbed at the ache without thinking, then caught myself, suddenly aware of the public aisle.

Sarah lifted her carry-on down in one smooth motion. I reached for mine but my bag had slid back, wedged just out of reach.

“Need a hand?”

A young man leaned in, all sunburnt neck and eager smile. I smiled back automatically—because, why not—my mouth already opening.

“Yes, ple—”

Sarah’s arm went up. My bag came down. Quick, tidy, handle in my hand.

“Thanks for the offer, mate,” she said. It was polite enough to pass as friendliness.

The young man’s smile faltered. I looked at the aisle floor with my luggage handle suddenly feeling awkward in my hand, trying to work out why my stomach had tightened.

We moved through the concourse at Sarah’s pace: brisk. Sarah's eyes were straight in front of her, purposeful, not looking at anyone. Signs. Doors. Escalators. She didn’t hold my hand or hover, but just… stayed close, as if intent on filling space between us others might try to step into.

The first train was packed and steamy. The rain had stopped, but the damp air combined with heat and damp wool, leaving a sour aftertaste of travel sweat and over-worked deodorant. Bodies pressed in, shoulders brushing, someone’s backpack zip scraped my arm. I planted my feet in the exit area gripping luggage handles, handbag hanging off one shoulder, and felt the old instinct tug at me—fold in, make smaller, disappear.

Sarah’s hand landed at my elbow. Firm. A correction, direction. She shifted to the side, away from the open aisle, and I copied her, turned my body so my bag was in front of me. It was a tiny thing, but it made me feel less… accessible.

Sarah’s eyes flicked to my face, her lips tightened quickly in acknowledgement.

By the time we reached Eagle Junction, the sun had come out. The platform heat hit like opening an oven—drying concrete radiated it back up through my shoes. I found the ticket office and asked which way, voice too soft in my own ears.

“Last platform,” the man said, indicating. “Ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I dug through my purse for a breath mint and my fingers found something cold, small, precious. There it was: a tiny white vial tucked beside my wallet like a secret.

J’Adore.

Everything in me leaned towards home, towards a little flat in Torquay, towards her. For a second it was like Celeste was close enough to melt into. I held the vial to my face, eyes closed. The thought of her made my throat ache.

Then—without thinking—I sprayed my wrists.

Two tiny mists. Soft. Private.

Sarah’s breath caught.

“What?” I said softly, already bracing. “Is that… bad?”

“That certainly smells nice, love,” a man said behind me—too close, too casual, too familiar, as if the word belonged to him.

Heat climbed my neck. Cringing slightly, I dropped my hands to my sides as if hiding skin could hide scent. My eyes went to the concrete like it could form a wall around me.

When I glanced at Sarah her lips had tightened again, her face cool in the way a door goes shut. She stepped in front of me as welcome as shade at noon. Practised. Almost... resigned.

The train screamed into the station.

Sarah touched my elbow—firm, guiding—and steered us toward a carriage towards the front of the train, her body between mine and the platform. We darted in, pulling our luggage like reluctant sheep behind us.

The carriage was full and loud for a long while — not music loud, just bodies loud. Conversation still wearing its outside voice. Phone calls on speaker. A child kicking the seat somewhere behind me in a steady, cheerful rhythm.

I stared out the window and arranged my face into commuter neutral.

Every now and then I glanced at Sarah. She glanced away almost immediately, as if she didn't want to provide an explanation.

Eventually the noise softened. The air didn’t get clean so much as… less lived-in. Left behind was a sour, stale smell that had nothing to do with rain and everything to do with someone making a decision about soap and sticking with it.

The city started to loosen into gum trees and scattered houses. The light went softer.

Sarah shifted in her seat.

“How’re you travelling, Charli?”

I swallowed. My throat still felt tight in a way that wasn’t from the plane. “Okay,” I said with a tiny shrug, and then, because I was sure she could see it sitting right there in my chest, “I didn’t think it was going to be like this.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “What did you think?”

I shrugged again, still small. Missing Celeste had been a full-body thing—crowded, constant—like there wasn’t room left for anything else. And now, the real world kept crowding in.

“You miss her,” Sarah said.

It wasn’t a question.

My eyes went hot. I looked down quickly and brought my hand up to rub the back of my neck; it felt like cast iron.

And suddenly, the fragrance—J’Adore, still sitting on my wrists, faint but there—and with it the platform, the man’s voice behind me, that word like he owned it.

Love.

I shuddered, feeling slightly sick, and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Sarah was watching me. When she spoke again her voice was lower, flatter.

“Right,” she said. “Perhaps we should talk about that.”

I made myself look at her. Swallowed. Hard.

“About… perfume?”

“About you, hun,” she corrected, and it was so matter-of-fact it didn’t feel like an insult. “Out here.”

I felt my shoulders curl in without permission. Sarah noticed—I could tell she noticed, because her hand came down gently on my forearm: not comforting, just anchoring.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don't… fold up.” She glanced at the aisle, then back to me. “This is no time to make yourself smaller.”

I glared at the seat back, my cheeks burning. She could always see it happening. Sarah sighed, a small sound.

“You were thrown in a bit,” she said. She worried her thumbnail. “Wardrobe’s managed. There are women around you. Standards. Eyes on. Out here… it’s different.”

I stared at her, didn’t speak. The train rattled, we swayed in our seats. She nodded toward my wrist.

“Perfume carries,” she said. “It travels further than you think. Smiles do too. It’s an easy way to be noticed without meaning to.”

My mouth opened and nothing came out. Sarah’s expression softened by half a degree.

“You weren't to know. You’re not in trouble,” she added, as if she could hear the shame forming. “You’re just… untrained.”

Untrained.

The word sat wrong, like fabric cut against the grain. I looked down at my hands.

Then—slowly—I pulled my handbag into me. I didn’t know why it made me feel better. It just did.

Sarah saw that too.

She didn’t comment.

That was her comment.

“Okay,” I said finally, voice quiet. “So what do I do?”

Sarah’s mouth twitched again. “Here's what you don't do.”

I waited.

“Don't smile at strangers,” she said. “Want to be friendly? Choose who to be friendly to. Not just anyone.”

Something tightened in me again, but this time it wasn’t sadness—it was the uneasy understanding that I’d been walking through things without knowing I should brace.

The train hummed under my shoes, a steady vibration that made it impossible to forget I was moving.

I looked around properly this time. Not out the window: at the carriage. At who was left. Who was looking at their phones. Who wasn’t.

I rested my arm on the window ledge and caught the faint scent on my wrist again. For a second it twisted—platform, voice behind me—and I had to force myself to think harder, to bring Celeste’s face back into focus instead of that man’s.

I didn’t want the smell to mean carelessness.

I wanted it to mean her.

Just then, Sarah's phone pinged. She glanced down at it and grinned.

"Celeste."

Audio¶

🌷 🌸 🌺 Visible 🌷 🌸 🌺

[ Charli ]

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We have begun our descent into Brisbane…”

The engine note thinned, the plane easing down as if the captain were pumping the brakes. I felt a hard thud in my chest—and then nothing.

Emptiness.

A numb, floating blankness that made my hands feel slightly distant.

She should be here.

The wings flexed, shouldering us through the grey. We dipped under the clouds as raindrops streaked along the window. The cabin rattled softly, like the whole fuselage was clearing its throat, and the light went flat and metallic.

I shot Sarah a nervous grin—the kind you give when you want to borrow steadiness from someone else.

Sarah didn’t grin back. Her fingers were wrapped around the armrest like it owed her money and an apology. Her mouth was a thin line.

When the wheels hit the runway—that solid, honest thump—and the engines roared at the rain, I felt her grip loosen.

Not much.

Just enough to allow breathing to resume.

Rain had smeared the windows into watercolour.

The moment we stopped rolling, half the plane stood up like standing would summon the exit faster. Sarah stayed seated. She exhaled through her nose, eyes on her phone, unbothered by other people’s impatience.

“Change of plan,” she said. “No pickup. Never mind. We’ll take the train.”

My body felt stiff when I stood, my bum numb from the seat. I rubbed at the ache without thinking—then caught myself, suddenly aware of the public aisle.

Sarah lifted her carry-on down in one smooth motion.

I reached for mine, but my bag had slid back, wedged just out of reach.

“Need a hand?”

A young man leaned in—all sunburnt neck and eager smile.

I smiled back automatically, because why not, my mouth already opening.

“Yes, pleez...”

Sarah’s arm went up.

My bag came down.

Quick. Tidy. Handle in my hand.

“Thanks for the offer, mate,” she said.

Polite enough to pass as friendliness.

The young man’s smile faltered.

I looked at the aisle floor, my luggage handle suddenly awkward in my hand, trying to work out why my stomach had tightened.

We moved through the concourse at Sarah’s pace: brisk. Sarah’s eyes were straight in front of her, purposeful, not looking at anyone.

Signs. Doors. Escalators.

She didn’t hold my hand or hover.

She just stayed close, as if intent on filling space between us that other people might try to step into.

The first train was packed and steamy. The rain had stopped, but damp air combined with heat and wool, leaving a sour aftertaste of travel sweat and overworked deodorant.

Bodies pressed in. Shoulders brushing. Someone’s backpack zip scraped my arm.

I planted my feet in the exit area, gripping luggage handles, handbag hanging off one shoulder, and felt the old instinct tug at me.

Fold in. Make smaller. Disappear.

Sarah’s hand landed at my elbow.

Firm.

A correction. A direction.

She shifted to the side, away from the open aisle. I copied her, turned my body so my bag was in front of me.

It was a tiny thing.

But it made me feel less… accessible.

Sarah’s eyes flicked to my face. Her lips tightened quickly in acknowledgement.

By the time we reached Eagle Junction, the sun had come out. The platform heat hit like opening an oven—dry concrete radiated it back up through my shoes.

I found the ticket office and asked which way, my voice too soft in my own ears.

“Last platform,” the man said, indicating. “Ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I dug through my purse for a breath mint. My fingers found something cold, small, precious.

There it was: a tiny white vial tucked beside my wallet like a secret.

J’Adore.

Everything in me leaned toward home. Toward a little flat in Torquay. Toward her.

For a second it was like Celeste was close enough to melt into.

I held the vial to my face, eyes closed. The thought of her made my throat ache.

Then—without thinking—I sprayed my wrists.

Two tiny mists.

Soft.

Private.

Sarah’s breath caught.

“What?” I said softly, already bracing. “Is that… bad?”

“That certainly smells nice, love,” a man’s voice said behind me—too close, too casual, too familiar, as if the word belonged to him.

Heat climbed my neck. I dropped my hands to my sides as if hiding skin could hide scent. My eyes went to the concrete like it could form a wall around me.

When I glanced at Sarah, her lips had tightened again. Her face went cool in the way a door goes shut.

She stepped in front of me, as welcome as shade at noon.

Practised.

Almost resigned.

The train screamed into the station.

Sarah touched my elbow—firm, guiding—and steered us toward a carriage near the front, her body between mine and the platform.

We darted in, pulling our luggage like reluctant sheep behind us.

The carriage was full and loud for a long while—not music loud, just bodies loud.

Conversation still wearing its outside voice. Phone calls on speaker. A child kicking the seat somewhere behind me in a steady, cheerful rhythm.

I stared out the window and arranged my face into commuter neutral.

Every now and then I glanced at Sarah.

She glanced away almost immediately, as if she didn’t want to provide an explanation.

Eventually the noise softened. The air didn’t get clean so much as… less lived-in.

Left behind was a sour, stale smell that had nothing to do with rain and everything to do with someone making a decision about soap and sticking with it.

The city started to loosen into gum trees and scattered houses. The light went softer.

Sarah shifted in her seat.

“How’re you travelling, Charli?”

I swallowed. My throat still felt tight in a way that wasn’t from the plane.

“Okay,” I said, with a tiny shrug.

Then, because I was sure she could see it sitting right there in my chest, “I didn’t think it was going to be like this.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

“What did you think?”

I shrugged again, still small. Missing Celeste had been a full-body thing—crowded, constant—like there wasn’t room left for anything else.

And now the real world kept crowding in.

“You miss her,” Sarah said.

It wasn’t a question.

My eyes went hot. I looked down quickly and rubbed the back of my neck. It felt like cast iron.

And suddenly, the fragrance—J’Adore, still sitting on my wrists, faint but there—and with it the platform, the man’s voice behind me, that word like he owned it.

Love.

I shuddered, feeling slightly sick, and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Sarah was watching me.

When she spoke again, her voice was lower. Flatter.

“Right,” she said. “Perhaps we should talk about that.”

I made myself look at her. Swallowed. Hard.

“About… perfume?”

“About you, hun,” she corrected, and it was so matter-of-fact it didn’t feel like an insult. “Out here.”

I felt my shoulders curl in without permission.

Sarah noticed. I could tell she noticed, because her hand came down gently on my forearm—not comforting, just anchoring.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t fold up.”

She glanced at the aisle, then back to me.

“This is no time to make yourself smaller.”

I glared at the seat back, my cheeks burning. She could always see it happening.

Sarah sighed. A small sound.

“You were thrown in a bit,” she said. She worried her thumbnail. “Wardrobe’s managed. There are women around you. Standards. Eyes on. Out here…”

A beat.

“It’s different.”

I stared at her, didn’t speak. The train rattled. We swayed in our seats.

She nodded toward my wrist.

“Perfume carries,” she said. “It travels further than you think. Smiles do too. It’s an easy way to be noticed without meaning to.”

My mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Sarah’s expression softened by half a degree.

“You weren’t to know. You’re not in trouble,” she added, as if she could hear the shame forming. “You’re just… untrained.”

Untrained.

The word sat wrong, like fabric cut against the grain. I looked down at my hands.

Then—slowly—I pulled my handbag in to my chest.

I didn’t know why it made me feel better.

It just did.

Sarah saw that too.

She didn’t comment.

That was her comment.

“Okay,” I said finally, voice quiet. “So what do I do?”

Sarah’s mouth twitched again.

“Here’s what you don’t do.”

I waited.

“Don’t smile at strangers,” she said. “Want to be friendly? Choose who to be friendly to. Not just anyone.”

Something tightened in me again, but this time it wasn’t sadness.

It was the uneasy understanding that I’d been walking through things without knowing I should brace.

The train hummed under my shoes, a steady vibration that made it impossible to forget I was moving.

I looked around properly this time. Not out the window—at the carriage.

At who was left. Who was looking at their phones. Who wasn’t.

I rested my arm on the window ledge and caught the faint scent on my wrist again. For a second it twisted—platform, voice behind me—and I had to force myself to think harder, to bring Celeste’s face back into focus instead of that man’s.

I didn’t want the smell to mean carelessness.

I wanted it to mean her.

Just then, Sarah’s phone pinged. She glanced down at it and grinned.

“Celeste!”

Scene 56 Audio¶

I had never realised how loud everything was up here in the clouds.

Not outside, obviously. Outside the clouds looked soft and cuddly and a bit ornamental, like someone had gone mad with a piping bag. But from my window seat the clouds were a bright, searing white that stung my eyes. In here, the engine hummed and shuddered the floor under my feet, and the little plastic oval of the window vibrated against my forehead every time I leaned on it — which I did, approximately every thirty seconds, as if the view might have changed in that time.

We were actually doing it. And I was actually doing this. Queensland. Maleny. The new Les Miserable Historical Fair. A whole new Wardrobe, waiting for us like an unwritten pattern.

It would have been easier if we’d simply been scooped up by a kind hand at Wardrobe and placed in our seats on the plane without all the rest of leaving — if I hadn’t had to walk down a ramp, away from Celeste.

My chest still hurt from the way she’d held me at the gate.

That was the freshest thing in my mind, the rawest. It was a new pain so I had nothing to compare it to. I stared out at snowy white clouds dropping away below us, but all I could see were her eyes, even as I tried to think of absolutely anything else.

Celeste had done her very best impression of calm, sensible, supportive grown-up right up until the woman at the check-in desk had printed my boarding pass and put the little tag on my carry-on. She’d stood behind me in line, hands on my shoulders, her body a solid, warm presence that I kept leaning back into as if I could fuse with her and somehow avoid the whole pain of leaving.

“You can still say no,” she’d said quietly, one last time, as if we were at the edge of a diving platform instead of in front of a conveyor belt. “Right up until they close the doors. There is no noble suffering prize for doing something that feels wrong in your bones.”

“It doesn’t feel wrong,” I’d said, throat tight. “It feels… enormous. Which is different.”

She’d given a little broken laugh at that, and then the tears had started in her eyes, sudden and sharp, as if a cold wind had blown into them from the south.

“Enormous is allowed,” she’d said. “Enormous I can work with. Enormous we can text about.”

We’d had to move then — the line behind us had not, regrettably, been suspended by fate while we had our moment. Mum had hugged me hard enough to squeak my ribs and murmured, “Bring her back to me intact,” into Sarah’s ear with that dry, fierce look she’d developed lately. Mara had kissed my forehead and said, very softly, “Do not forget, my little nightingale, you know a lot more than you think you do,” which had made my eyes go even more traitorously wet.

And then it had been just Celeste and me, right up against the barrier where only one of us was allowed to pass.

She’d cupped my face in both hands, thumbs pressing gently into the hollows beneath my cheekbones as if she was memorising the shape of me.

“I am so proud of you,” she’d said, low enough that the milling airport sounds didn’t steal it. “Not for going to Queensland. For choosing. For saying yes with your whole self when it would have been so much easier to stay and let other people be brave on your behalf.”

I’d wanted to say, I don’t feel brave, I feel like a jelly in leggings, but the words had jammed behind the lump in my throat. So I’d just nodded and tried to look like the sort of person who could board a plane and deal with whatever waited on the other end without dissolving.

“Go and be magnificent,” she’d said. And then, because she could never leave well enough alone, “and come home.”

We’d both cried by then, uselessly, unattractively, clinging in the middle of Departures while the rest of the world pretended not to look. Sarah had politely become fascinated by a vending machine. Mum had stared very hard at a poster advertising travel insurance.

And then security had loomed, horribly official, and I’d had to actually walk away.

It hurt to think about, sitting there with a paper cup of airline water sweating on the tray table. My eyes stung again, thinking about it.

I made myself look out at the clouds.

The brightness outside was almost aggressive. The wing rose and fell with those tiny, corrective shivers that reminded me, unhelpfully, of how much metal and fuel and physics were involved in keeping us climbing into the harsh sunlight.

I pushed my mind past the gate, past the hugging, past the careful packing of the night before where we’d argued lightly about how many pairs of socks I really needed, to a moment my chosen existence had first felt properly unsafe.

The loading bay.

It had been three months ago and also it had been yesterday. My body couldn’t quite decide.

The memory was so vivid I could still feel the concrete under my thin-soled shoes, gritty and warm, and the weight of the bolt of cloth in my arms, and then the heat of that unwelcome hand — a hand that had no right to be there — sliding across my back as if I were an extension of the crate. Something. Not someone. Not a person who deserved to be asked.

Some. Thing.

The instant terror, every nerve on high alert. The way my throat had locked around all the words I knew I should say, but I was too frozen with fright. The unfamiliar, stupefying shame — not just at how I’d let this man touch me, or at the way his fingers had pressed, but at my own body for turning me into statue and stupid, instead of fierce and clever like Celeste, or calm and deadly like Sarah.

Sarah had been calm and deadly. Of course she had. She’d appeared as if my body had screeched an alarm, gently removed the bolt from my arms, placed herself between me and the rep, and told him, in that flat tone that made confident grins turn into weak apologies, that no-one touches staff, no-one brushes past staff, staff are not bracing surfaces, and if he wanted to accrue the privilege of proximity he could start by treating the women in the room as if they had spines and names.

He’d apologised, of course. There was always some sort of apology once they were caught — an apology his face lied about, a face that said he was far more offended by being told off than he had ever been invested in the initial touch.

And I’d smiled like an idiot and tried to laugh it off with my mouth, while my eyes did their very best goldfish impression.

And then I’d gone home and curled up on the couch and felt small and stupid and furious with myself, because surely, by now, after everything, I should have known better than to freeze.

Which was why Queensland had loomed after that like a phrase in a language I didn’t speak yet. New site, new men, new hands, new versions of that moment. I’d imagined myself stiff and wordless in loading bays I’d never seen, in corridors and costume sheds and gravel carparks, Sarah somewhere further down the line, too far away to interpose, Celeste hundreds of kilometres south.

It had taken weeks before the courier with the clipboard arrived and I heard myself say, very calmly, “Could I get you to please step back a bit?” before adrenaline could get in the way. He’d stepped back.

The world hadn’t cracked. No one had died of embarrassment. And I had stood there, heart pounding, and thought, oh. Oh, so it can be this, too.

Now, on the plane, with the engine humming and the clouds solid as sea foam, I thought of that courier like a rehearsal. A tiny dress rehearsal in a small loading bay, for all the bigger stages that might be waiting.

I turned my head slightly and glanced up at Sarah.

She was in the aisle seat, of course. She’d insisted on it in that brisk way she had when she wanted to take responsibility for the part of the environment nearest the exit.

“I get twitchy if I can’t be near the aisle,” she’d said when we chose our seats. “You get the window, you like looking at clouds. Everyone wins.”

She was reading now, or pretending to. The in-flight magazine was open on her lap, but I could tell from the way her eyes weren’t moving that she was somewhere else entirely, probably rearranging Queensland in her mind until it behaved to her standards.

I watched the line of her jaw, the relaxed set of her shoulders, the way her hand rested on the armrest, fingers loose and capable. A strange little ribbon of warmth uncurled in my chest.

Gratitude.

I wasn’t going up there alone.

If some Queensland man decided that my back looked like a handrail again, there would be a woman within arm’s reach whose eyebrows could peel skin. I had seen Sarah deal with builders, with managers, with men who thought “just a bit of fun” was a spell that coated improper behaviour with a veneer of normalcy and made consequences evaporate. She never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. She simply laid out reality and left it on the table like a pair of scissors — obvious, sharp, impossible to ignore.

It made all the difference.

It also, perversely, made me more determined that she wouldn’t have to leap to my rescue every time. I wanted, this time, not just to survive, but to participate. Not disappear, but actually show up as a woman like Sarah.

Be — a Woman.

The thought made my stomach swoop in a way that had nothing to do with the plane’s small adjustments.

My mind, unhelpfully, drifted further back, to the pill bottle.

My solution for a more successful hiding, in plain sight.

Celeste had found it by accident. The things you wanted to hide properly were always the ones betrayed by a lazy moment. And, back then when I got the pills, I had instinctively sensed that Celeste wouldn’t have approved.

I’d left my bag half unzipped on the bed, hurriedly, one evening when I’d needed a shower more than dinner and I’d been debating with myself about whether or not to take that night’s dose.

She’d gone looking for a hair tie and had found a plastic cylinder. I’d come in brushing still-damp hair and seen her standing there, the bottle on the table, her eyes turned towards me — eyes horrified, not comprehending.

“Where did you get this?”

I hadn’t even tried to come up with an excuse — the thinking that had led to the tablets was so painfully ridiculous at that point. All I could see was the threat. Losing Wardrobe, losing friends, losing her.

And then, her look. Not anger. Not exactly. Something sharper and softer at the same time. It was fear, threaded with something I would never have expected — protectiveness.

Of me.

We’d had The Conversation after that. About how petrified I had been of what my body was going to do to my life, of a puberty I’d hoped I had magically avoided coming late like a delayed train with no announced platform. About how the horror of the changes — the thickening of leg hair, the changes in my voice — had made me feel like I was being sealed in concrete. About reading too much on the internet in forums that promised solutions, and how the bottle had felt like a spell I could cast on myself to stay nearer the version of me that made sense in my own head.

She’d been angry, yes. Furious, even. But not with me.

With systems. With a world that would rather avert its gaze than have a teenager sit quietly in a room and say “I think I might not be who you thought I was” and be believed the first time.

That conversation — those hours on the bed with the bottle between us like evidence — had been the first time I’d fully understood that Celeste didn’t just like me as a person; she saw me as a responsibility she had willingly taken on. Not to control. To shelter. To argue with, sometimes, fiercely, for my own sake.

And even more surprising, that she might even love me.

Thinking back on that night, it was, in a strange way, the same energy that had led her to say yes to Fiona, yes to Queensland, yes to the terrifying thought of sending me away.

From her.

From us.

If she had been anyone else, she might have kept me back. Wrapped me in cotton wool. Swallowed the QLD contract rather than risk me in a new environment.

Instead, she had stood there with her hands on my shoulders and said I trust you. I trust Sarah. I trust myself to hear and react if you say stop.

Trust had always been a more frightening word to me than love.

Love was dizzy and delicious and intoxicating. Trust was weight. Anchor. The knowledge that someone had placed a part of their future happiness in your hands — and expected you not to run off with it.

Now, on the plane, with Sarah’s solid presence beside me and Celeste’s last messages sitting patiently on my phone in Airplane Mode, I felt that weight and did not hate it.

My thoughts slid further back, past the pills, past the loading bay, to something deeper. That first sense of being somewhere between X and Y, chromosome letters that had felt like labels for a mistake. Feeling the warmth and closeness of people who thought like me, who I could be myself with, who wanted me like this, and who quietly identified me to myself. How all of that had made me actively refuse the “Y” version of my future and cling to “X,” desperately, ignorantly, not realising what womanhood carried in its handbag — the Pandora’s box of joys and hazards and expectations.

It had started the first time I’d stood in the middle of Wardrobe and realised, quite suddenly, that I was not… extra. Or foreign. Not in the wrong place.

I’d been at the big table, smoothing a length of linen that did not want to lie flat, tongue poking out between my teeth in that extremely dignified way I’d developed when concentrating. Around me, women moved as if to some internal choreography — Mara with her shears, Sarah with her chalk, Mum with a mug of tea she was pretending wasn’t a grounding mechanism.

Someone had called, “Charli, can you pass me the tape?” and I had done so automatically, and then a moment later someone else — I think it was Lucy — had said, “Where’s Charli, we need her hands for this fit,” and there was no edge in it, no sarcasm.

Just expectation.

Not tolerance.

Inclusion.

I’d looked up and around and felt, for the first time in my life, that particular, dizzying thought: I am one of you.

Not a mascot or a guest. Not the strange, half-boy, half-question-mark creature lingering at the edges of other people’s lives.

One of the women.

As I stared out at the flapping wing, it suddenly came back to me, the reason that boy in year ten had asked, “Are you scared of girls?” I hadn’t known what to answer then, so I’d hotly denied it. Now, watching the flight attendant walk slowly uphill to the front of the cabin, I realised what he thought was fear was never that. It had simply been… personhood. Girls weren’t objects to ogle; they were people, like me.

In Wardrobe, when Lucy had called me “she,” it had made my knees go a little funny, and I’d had to pretend to stretch so I could disguise the way my legs wanted to give out. I’d felt like the light shining inside me was so bright, people were going to be blinded by it.

And later that night, Celeste had asked why I’d gone so quiet, and I’d blurted out, “I think I belong,” but I don’t think she’d known why I said that, at the time. And I’d been afraid to tell her what it felt like.

Lucy identifying me to me was… belonging. Belonging.

High school had been the opposite of that.

High school had been corridors that smelt of sweat and disinfectant, uniforms that never felt like they were for me, mirrors that showed a skinny, short, uncertain boy-shape I hardly ever looked at and only recognised from the inside out in odd flashes.

It felt, now, like a terrible first draft I had written under duress. This — Wardrobe, Celeste, Sarah, the flat, the arguments about sock quantities, the soft, solid weight of Mum’s pride when she’d hugged me tightly at the airport — felt like the real version, the one I might actually want to read again.

The captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, cheerfully announcing that we were beginning our descent into Brisbane, that the weather on the ground was warm and slightly humid, that we might experience “a few bumps” on the way down.

My stomach was already doing bumps.

I glanced at Sarah again. She had closed the magazine at last and was looking straight ahead, with that particular focus on her face she got when she was running through lists in her head.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She turned her head and gave me a long, assessing look, the kind she usually reserved for unstable hemming tape.

“Yeah, I’m good… thanks,” she said, which from her meant something entirely different than it did from most people. “Mildly irritated that I can’t get up and pace, but I’ll live.”

“And… about everything else?” I ventured.

Her mouth curved.

“Nervous,” she admitted. “Excited. Already planning the cupboard layout in my head. Deeply determined that no one will hang one of Mara’s coats on a bent nail. Standard levels of pre-mission agitation.”

It was so gloriously Sarah that I couldn’t help but smile.

“You?” she added, and there it was, the small, gentle return of the question. She never left me hanging on a limb alone if she could help it.

“Terrified,” I said honestly. “And also glad that I said yes. And… so glad that you’re here.”

The passing flight attendant wordlessly pointed at my waist. I quickly fastened my seat belt. “Oh, and that Celeste didn’t put her foot down and keep me at home,” I added, “like a particularly anxious pot plant.”

“She couldn’t have, even if she’d wanted to,” Sarah said. “We’d have mutinied on your behalf.”

The idea of Mara and Sarah staging a small domestic coup to liberate me from Celeste’s hypothetical overprotection was so lovely I wanted to frame it.

“And anyway,” Sarah went on, softer, “you are not a pot plant. You’re… I don’t know. A very determined climbing rose. You’re going to put roots wherever we land, whether Queensland likes it or not.”

That did it. My eyes went hot and stupid again.

“You realise you just called me a rose on a plane full of strangers,” I muttered.

“Good,” she said. “They should take notes.”

The seatbelt sign pinged on. The plane dipped, gently, like a curtsey. The clouds shifted from bright knife-edged white to softer, shaggier shapes as we slid down through them.

I pressed my hand against the cool plastic of the window, palm flat, and imagined, very clearly, the line from my fingers back through the fuselage, back along an invisible airborne trace to Torquay, to the little flat with the too-small bed where, at that precise moment, Celeste was probably pacing with her phone in her hand, pretending to read an article and not absorbing a single word.

I could almost hear her voice already, when I would turn my phone back on after landing and the messages would come in all at once.

Are you down? Do you still exist? Is Queensland terrible? Tell me everything in excruciating detail.

The thought steadied me in a way no seatbelt ever could.

I glanced at Sarah. She met my eyes, and in that look there was a whole speech: We’re doing this! We will be tired and hot and occasionally frustrated, and then we will come home and tell Celeste every awful, hilarious, glorious detail until she feels like she was there too.

The plane banked. Out of the window, far below, I could see the faint line of the coast and the dark, folded green of the hinterland rising up behind it like the hem of a skirt.

Somewhere in all that green there would be a half-built site, a new Wardrobe, a bunch of nervous, eager women who had no idea yet that the clothes they were unpacking came with ghosts and love and history sewn into every seam.

I took a breath that felt like stepping into cold water.

I was going to meet them as myself.

Not as a boy in the wrong uniform, not as a question mark hiding in plain sight, not as the girl who froze and then hated herself for it.

As Charli. Wardrobe’s girl.

Celeste’s girl.

My own girl.

I reached across the narrow gap and curled my fingers around Sarah’s where they rested on the armrest.

“Ready?” she asked.

“No,” I said, heart hammering. “Yes. Both.”

“Perfect,” she said. Gave my hand a squeeze. And grinned. “There she is!”

As the plane dipped further and the world rose up to meet us, I pressed my forehead one more time against the humming window and let myself believe, properly, that I was exactly where I was meant to be: flying north with a woman I trusted at my side, another one waiting for me in a small, messy flat far below the clouds, and the next chapter of my life laid out somewhere between the coast and the hills, ready to be stitched.

Published¶

26-Feb-2026¶

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Audio version: here.

[ Charli ]