Chapter 4

Faye

The door clicked shut, and I watched as Yoko's figure disappeared down the hallway. Only then did I release the breath I didn't realise I'd been holding. A sigh of relief escaped my lips, carrying with it the tension that had been coiled tight in my chest all afternoon.

I tugged at the hem of my shirt, freeing it from the confines of my leather skirt. The crisp fabric crumpled slightly as it loosened, a small act of rebellion against the polished exterior I had worn all day.

It's the end of the day, I told myself. Let me be unruly for once.

Leaning back in my chair, I pressed my fingers against my temples, massaging away the dull ache that had settled there.

Teaching was never easy—it was equal parts rewarding and exhausting—but what truly tested my patience, my resolve, was the challenge of maintaining my professional composure around Yoko.

Yoko.

Her name lingered in my thoughts like the echo of a song. There was something about her, something intangible yet undeniable, that drew me to her like a moth to a flame.

I couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly—perhaps the way her mind worked, the way she put her thoughts into words with such vivid imagery and raw emotion.

Before I knew it, I found myself orbiting her, seeking out moments to speak to her, to challenge her, to get closer. And yet, I had to tread carefully, to keep the boundary between teacher and student intact. It was maddening.

I let out a quiet laugh, one tinged with both exasperation and fondness, as I sank deeper into my chair. My mind drifted to her first essay, the one that had caught my attention in a way no student's work ever had. Her words had painted such a striking image, a slice of her soul laid bare on the page.

"Under the vast sky, Dad, Ham, and I stood—

Shadows merging, hearts stitched with light.

The world dissolved into the night's gentle breath,

And in that silence, even fear forgot our names."

I remembered the way her essay had tugged at something deep within me—how it felt like she had reached into my heart.

Just then, my phone pinged, breaking the silence in the empty classroom. A soft smile played on my lips as I glanced at the screen.

Engfa

Faye! Dinner tonight?

I leaned back in my chair, a wave of relief washing over me. Quickly, I tapped out a reply, feeling the familiar comfort that only comes from close friendship.

Faye

Sure, I just ended work. Mine or yours?

Engfa

I'm in the area, let's meet at yours.

Faye

Great, see you soon.

The anticipation of seeing Engfa lifted my mood instantly.

There was something comforting about our dinners—casual conversations, easy laughter, and a chance to unwind. It was a welcome change from the usual routine of heading home, eating leftovers, and drowning in stacks of ungraded essays.

I gathered my things quickly, feeling a lightness in my step as I made my way to the teacher's car park. Sliding into the driver's seat, I started the engine, the familiar hum filling the quiet space.

My house was just a few streets away—a short drive, or even a walk if I felt like it. Not that I'd ever turn into one of those people who preached about saving the planet.

Tonight wasn't about routines or responsibilities. It was about reconnecting, sharing stories, and letting go of the day's weight. I smiled to myself, already looking forward to the warmth that awaited me at home.

Pulling into the driveway, I parked the car and stepped into the comforting quiet of my house. As I closed the door behind me, I wondered what to cook for Engfa tonight.

Walking to the fridge, I grabbed a bottle of ice-cold water, taking a few sips as I scanned the shelves. My eyes landed on minced beef and a bag of flour—perfect. Lasagna. Hearty, warm, and a nostalgic reminder of our student days in London, cramming in our tiny apartment, cooking for each other between looming deadlines.

I quickly headed upstairs to change out of my work clothes, slipping into something more comfortable before heading into the kitchen. Cooking had always been my way of unwinding, a ritual that brought order to the chaos of the day.

I started with the pasta sheets. Measuring out the flour and mixing it with eggs and a touch of salt, I kneaded the dough until it was smooth and elastic. Rolling it into thin sheets using my KitchenAid, I watched each piece flatten perfectly. There was something almost therapeutic about it—the steady rhythm, the precision.

Next, I turned my attention to the beef. I seasoned it carefully, ensuring the right balance of salt, pepper, and a touch of oregano. Every detail mattered. The smell of sizzling meat filled the kitchen as I browned it gently, stirring occasionally to ensure even cooking.

While the beef cooked, I moved to the vegetables, chopping them with deliberate care.

Fresh onions, garlic, and bell peppers—each slice uniform, each ingredient adding its distinct layer of flavour. The scent of the greens mingled with the rich aroma of the meat, and I couldn't help but smile softly.

Once everything was prepped, I began assembling the lasagna with meticulous precision.

A layer of pasta sheets went down first, perfectly aligned. Then came a generous spread of the seasoned beef, followed by a layer of vegetables. I didn't hold back on the cheese, sprinkling a thick, even layer that would melt into golden perfection. I repeated the process—pasta, beef, vegetables, cheese—each layer a careful construction.

Finally, I poured the rich, homemade béchamel sauce over the top, finishing with one last lavish layer of cheese.

Sliding the casserole dish into the preheated oven, I set the timer and adjusted the temperature, trusting the oven to work its magic.

While the lasagna baked, I tidied the living room, collecting the books scattered across the table. Engfa loved to tease me about my clutter, and I wasn't about to give her any more ammunition.

Satisfied with the tidy space, I sank into the couch, scrolling through options for something light-hearted to watch. The aroma of baking lasagna filled the air, promising an evening of warmth and laughter.

Engfa will be here soon. And for the first time today, I felt like I could relax.

It didn't take long—just 45 minutes later, a knock echoed through the quiet house. I paused the TV, got up from the couch, and walked to the door, anticipation building.

Opening it, I broke into a wide, welcoming smile.

"Hey, you!" Engfa beamed back, pulling me into a warm hug. Her familiar energy instantly brightened the space.

"How have you been?" she asked, squeezing me gently.

"Doing fine. Probably much better than you," I teased, a playful glint in my eyes.

She laughed, rolling her eyes. "Touché. Come on, let me in."

She shrugged off her coat, tossing it casually over the side of the couch, and dropped her bag next to it. As I headed to the kitchen, I glanced over my shoulder.

"Water?"

"Oh yes, please. You know I only drink ice-cold water," she replied, chuckling. 

Some habits never change.

I grabbed a fresh bottle from the fridge, handing it to her. She twisted the cap off and took a long drink, closing her eyes with exaggerated bliss.

"Oh god, this feels so good," she sighed, almost draining half the bottle in one go. "So, what's for dinner?"

"Beef lasagna. Should be ready any minute now. Hope you're hungry enough to finish it," I said, settling back on the couch.

She flopped down beside me, eyes wide with excitement. "Are you kidding me? Beef lasagna? You know that's my weakness! Especially your lasagna. It takes me right back to our university days."

"Exactly the vibe I was going for." I snapped my fingers, grinning.

"You really know me, Faye." She swayed side to side, her joy infectious, making me laugh.

Just then, the oven timer chimed, cutting through our conversation.

"There it is. Go ahead and wait at the table. I'll bring the food out in a second." I stood up, heading back to the kitchen and pulling on oven gloves.

"Let me help you with the table," Engfa offered, already moving to grab plates and utensils.

We moved around the kitchen in perfect sync. She knew exactly where everything was, from the cutlery to the napkins. It felt effortless—like slipping into an old rhythm. We could've been in one of those competitive cooking shows, a seamless duo working in harmony.

Within minutes, the table was set, and we were seated, digging into the fragrant, golden lasagna.

The first bite made Engfa close her eyes and let out a satisfied groan. I couldn't help but laugh at the sound.

"Old habits die hard, huh?"

She shot me a grin, eyes sparkling. "What can I say? Some things never change."

"You're overreacting again, Engfa," I teased, unable to hide my smile.

She playfully slapped my arm, eyes sparkling with mock indignation.

"No way! Your lasagna still tastes exactly the same as it did years ago. Honestly, where else could I find homemade food this good?" she gushed, rolling her eyes for emphasis.

"Nowhere but here," I replied with a grin, scooping up another generous portion and placing it on her plate. "So, eat up."

We fell into easy conversation, the room filled with laughter and the soft clinking of cutlery. We caught up on each other's lives, sharing updates and stories, occasionally drifting into nostalgic memories of our university days in London—cramming for exams, late-night talks, and cooking experiments gone wrong.

Once we'd polished off the last bites, Engfa stood up, gathering the dishes. She rolled up her sleeves, a familiar determination in her eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as she headed for the sink.

"Washing up, of course. You cook, I wash. That's how it's always been, Faye—since school," she replied matter-of-factly, flashing a mischievous grin.

"Nonsense. This is my house, and no host worth their salt lets their guests wash the dishes. Go relax on the couch. I'll handle this," I insisted, gently taking the plates from her hands.

She shook her head, a soft smile playing at her lips. "You always have to win, don't you?"

But she didn't argue. Instead, her eyes wandered toward the wine cellar, a familiar gleam of mischief lighting them up.

"Perhaps... shall we drink a little tonight?" she suggested, a playful lilt in her voice.

I looked up, meeting her gaze with a knowing smile. "Sure. Choose whatever you like."

Without hesitation, she opened the cellar and selected her favourite bottle. Moments later, she set the cosy scene in front of the couch, glasses ready. I joined her shortly, sinking into the comfortable warmth of our shared history and the quiet joy of being together.

"So, let's talk about you," Engfa said, swirling the wine in her glass before taking a slow sip.

"Me? What's there to talk about..." I tried to deflect, my voice trailing off as I avoided her gaze.

"Oh, come on. Work? School?" she pressed, curiosity dancing in her eyes.

"It's good—not too bad. Things have calmed down, and students are... well, still students," I replied matter-of-factly, hoping to keep it vague.

"No, no. I mean you." She drew invisible circles in the air with her finger, a knowing smirk on her lips. "You're different. There's this... glow. Spill it."

I felt a sudden warmth rush to my cheeks. Was it the wine or the conversation? I couldn't tell. Caught off guard, I set my glass down.

"Well..." I hesitated, pressing my lips together tightly. "I... met someone."

Engfa's eyebrows shot up in surprise, her silence urging me to continue.

"She's a student in my English Lit class," I admitted, each word making my heart beat a little faster. "A good student. One of the best I've seen."

"Oh wow," she teased, eyes widening. "You hopeless romantic. What did she do to you?"

"Nothing, really," I murmured, a soft smile creeping onto my face. My mind wandered to Yoko—her earnest voice reading poetry, the way her eyes lit up when discussing symbolism.

"Her writing... It's incredible. It's captivating."

"Uh-huh," Engfa's tone dripped with scepticism.

"It's more than that. There's something about her... her words stay with me, you know? Like they're alive."

She folded her arms, shaking her head like a disappointed mother. "Faye, you're unbelievable. Falling for someone just because they write well? Are all English Lit majors this soft-hearted?"

"Hey!" I laughed, throwing a cushion at her. "I'm not a hopeless romantic... at least not like you!"

"Oh, and what's that supposed to mean?" she shot back, eyes narrowing playfully.

"You've changed partners more times than a London bus changes stops. If anyone needs a self-reflection moment, it's you!" I teased, trying to steer the conversation away from me.

"Nice try. Tonight isn't about me," she countered, eyes twinkling. "It's about you and your 'hopeless' feelings. You're a tough nut, Faye. Remember how many people—guys, girls, you name it—tried to get close to you in school? Not a chance. And now, here you are, blushing over a student younger than you."

"It's the wine," I mumbled, cheeks growing warmer under her gaze.

"Sure. Totally the wine," she replied, her voice thick with sarcasm.

She leaned forward, eyes probing. "So, what's the progress? Does she know?"

I shrugged, shaking my head. "Nothing beyond class. I offered to help her with some extra lessons. We're starting this Friday."

"Oh, the perks of being a teacher," she teased, winking.

"Stop it! It's just tutoring," I insisted, reaching for my wine glass, hoping to hide behind another sip.

"And she's talented. She could be a writer one day—brilliant, even. The literary world would embrace her with open arms," I added, my voice tinged with admiration.

Engfa sighed, shaking her head with a mock exasperation that couldn't hide her fondness. "This is what's wrong with you English Lit types. All heart and no caution."

Our laughter filled the room as we continued our back-and-forth, old habits and banter carrying us late into the night. Until finally, the evening drew to a close, and it was time for Engfa to head home.

"I wish we could spend more time like this together, Faye," Engfa said softly, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

"Me too." My voice carried the weight of sincerity. "I miss you, and I miss our times together." Engfa wasn't just a friend; she was like the sister I never knew I needed—a part of my chosen family.

"But adulthood gets in the way," she said with a wry smile and a shrug. "Who can help it?"

We both chuckled, the weight of unspoken understanding between us.

"I'm always here for you, though," she continued. "Text me anytime, and I'll come flying."

"Thanks, Engfa. You know I'd do the same for you in a heartbeat." I walked her to the door. "Get home safe. Text me when you arrive. I'll wait for your message."

"Will do, Mom." She teased, rolling her eyes playfully before waving goodbye and heading to the waiting Uber.

I watched as she climbed in, the car pulling away. My feet stayed planted on the doorstep until it disappeared into the distance, a lingering emptiness settling in its wake.

Back inside, I closed the door and set about tidying up the living room. The silence felt thicker now, each clink of dishes a quiet reminder of the warmth that had just left. Once the last plate was clean and the cushions fluffed, I made my way upstairs.

In the bathroom, I started my nightly ritual: brushing my teeth, flossing, and cleansing my face. As I applied a soothing mask, its coolness grounding me, my thoughts began to drift.

I wonder what Yoko's doing right now.

The question popped into my mind unbidden, a soft, persistent whisper. Was she reading? Writing? Lost in her thoughts the way she often seemed in class?

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. 

Focus, Faye.

Leaning against the headboard, I scrolled through Instagram, letting the curated snapshots of other people's lives wash over me. Their smiling faces, exotic vacations, and polished achievements felt distant—like echoes from another world.

Just then, a notification flashed across the screen, pulling me back to the present.

My fingers hovered over the notification, eyes widening slightly when I saw the name: Yoko. She had liked an old photo of mine, one I'd posted months ago—a candid shot of me on the subway, dyed hair tied up, leather jacket draped over my shoulders, eyes fixed on my phone.

I refreshed the notifications, half-expecting to see her name vanish like a mirage. And it did.

Ah, I smirked, someone got caught stalking me.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the search bar, fingers quickly typing in her handle. Her profile popped up, and without hesitation, I hit "follow."

The screen stays frozen on the pending request for what felt like an eternity. But then—almost instantly—her follow request came back.

My grin widened. Interesting.

I tapped on the message icon, my heart beating a little faster than I'd care to admit.

Let's play, Yoko.

Faye

Someone's been caught.

The message was read within 30 seconds, followed by the familiar bouncing dots—indicating she was typing her reply.

Yoko

What did I get caught for? 😳

Faye

Yeah right. Someone liked my photo and then unliked it immediately after.

Yoko

Ah.. that. I just accidentally clicked onto it. 🙃

Faye

Right, accidentally. But you searched for my profile first, no?

Yoko

Fine fine, whatever you say. 🙄

Just then, my alarm went off, reminding me it was time to peel off the mask. I quickly rushed to the bathroom, took it off, and returned to my bed.

Picking up my phone, I paused for a moment, wondering what to reply. Soon enough, my fingers were back in motion.

Faye

Roll your eyes once more and I'll do something about it.

Yoko

🙄

I laughed softly, shaking my head. She loved to challenge me, especially when I least expected it.

Faye

Since you love rolling your eyes so much, I'll give you a task. Write a poem about annoyance. Show it to me on Friday.

I cringed slightly at my own words. What am I even doing?

Yoko

Game on. Be ready for my masterpiece. You'll be amazed.

Faye

Looking forward to it. Hope it's not just mediocre.

Yoko

Teaching me again, aren't you?

I smirked. She caught on so quickly.

Faye

Maybe. For you to figure out.

Yoko

I'll think about it more. Time to sleep. Goodnight, Ms Peraya.

I squinted at the last part, her deliberate use of my full name.

So she wants to play this game, huh? I could definitely keep up.

Faye

Goodnight, Ms Apasra.

As I put my phone down and stretched out in bed, I felt the weight of the day finally starting to ease. Just then, a message popped up.

I quickly reached for my phone, half-expecting it to be Yoko. My heart gave a small flutter as I unlocked the screen, but when I saw the name, the moment of excitement quickly fizzled out.

Engfa

Home safe! 😊

I couldn't help but chuckle to myself, a little disappointed but not entirely surprised. Engfa's texts were always a reminder that she was looking out for me, but tonight, my thoughts were somewhere else.

I typed back quickly, trying to push away the feeling.

Faye

Good, take care of yourself. Sleep well.

I set the phone down again, the brief excitement from earlier lingering like a whisper. I settled back into my blankets, letting out a sigh, and tried to focus on the comforting warmth around me.

Maybe things were changing, and maybe, just maybe, they were changing for the better.