Chapter Five: A Soft Place To Land
1325 Words
Juliana had stopped measuring her life by days. Now she measures it by hours of sleep, the weight of her grocery bag, the distance between shifts, and how long she could go without crying in public.
Because there was always something to chase. Time. Money. Marks. Breath.
She no longer walked like someone with purpose, but someone on borrowed energy. Her steps were efficient. Automatic. Robotic. If you asked her what day it was, she’d pause and guess. If you asked when she last ate a full meal, she wouldn’t have an answer.
She couldn’t afford one.
Not when every pound earned had a destination. Not when the boy who called her Mamá lay in a hospital room thousands of miles away, fighting a cancer he didn’t understand.
Every breath she took had his name wrapped around it.
Monday bled into Tuesday. Then Tuesday into the next. Brighton rained as always light, sideways, persistent drizzle that soaked your coat without apology. The damp found its way into everything. Her bones. Her socks. The ends of her sleeves.
Juliana worked every job she could hold down. Mornings started before dawn at the bakery, where her hands smelled of flour and yeast by seven. Then lectures. Then the campus café until nine. On weekends, she cleaned Airbnbs across town, where guests left champagne stains and used towels in piles.
She never complained.
Complaining was for people who had options.
She had goals. Just one, really. Save her son.
Even if it cost her the truth.
Since the promise of the offer from Professor Hargreaves, something had shifted inside her. Not peace. Not yet. But direction. A path. A thread she could hold onto while the rest of her life frayed at the seams.
Still, the guilt was a constant itch beneath her skin.
She had lied.
To someone who looked at her without judgment. Who had stepped out of his own silence to offer her help, even if he didn’t know the truth of why.
And yet, she couldn’t tell him.
Not because she didn’t want to.
But because she couldn’t afford what it might cost her.
So, she did what she’d always done.
She buried the truth and got to work.
Juliana stopped going out. Stopped responding to the group chat from her course mates. She took notes in class with hands that shook from hunger, her handwriting shrinking with each passing week. She read essays in the library but never had the energy to print them. The printer charge felt like a tax on survival.
Professor Hargreaves never brought it up again the offer. The money. The condition.
But he noticed her. And she noticed that he noticed.
He no longer looked through her like he once did. He no longer circled her work with cold detachment but left behind sharp, meaningful comments that read like conversation.
“Your analysis here is astute. Push it further what is the cost of self-preservation?”
That line stayed with her for days.
She wondered if he meant it academically, or if he somehow saw through her.
One night, after a back-to-back shift and a study session that left her dizzy with fatigue, Juliana stopped at the vending machine outside the dormitory library. She had a single pound coin left. Enough for crackers or tea.
She picked the crackers.
They jammed in the coil and didn’t fall.
She stared at the packet, barely holding back a bitter laugh. She pressed the return button twice. Nothing. Just the hum of machinery and her reflection in the scratched glass.
She didn’t cry.
Not until a voice beside her said gently, “Sometimes I think vending machines are the cruelest inventions on Earth.”
She turned.
Professor Hargreaves.
Same charcoal coat. Same unreadable expression. This time, he was holding two cups of takeaway tea.
“I didn’t think you knew where students lived,” she said, surprised.
“I live nearby,” he replied, offering her one of the cups. “And I don’t sleep much.”
She hesitated. Then took it.
The heat startled her. Her fingers tingled from the sudden warmth.
He nodded toward the vending machine. “Twist the bottom left corner. Backward. Then give it a sharp tap.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“It works. Usually,” he added.
She followed his instructions.
The crackers dropped.
A small, stunned laugh escaped her. “You’re a vending machine whisperer.”
He gave the faintest smirk. “Among other things.”
They sat on the bench nearby, tea warming their hands. Students passed in pairs and threes, heads bowed under umbrellas. Laughter floated somewhere in the distance. But here, between them, there was quiet.
“Why did you really offer to help me?” she asked softly.
He studied the steam from his tea. “Because you’re drowning. And unlike most people who drown, you don’t make a sound.”
She was quiet.
“You remind me of someone I loved.”
“Your wife?” she asked.
He nodded once.
“She was loud. Bold. She filled every room she walked into. She cried during commercials. Argued with strangers in bookstores. She believed in people even when they didn’t believe in themselves.”
Juliana smiled faintly. “And you?”
“I stayed in the shadows. I listened more than I spoke. I always thought quiet meant strength. Until she died. And the silence became unbearable.”
Juliana didn’t speak for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. And she meant it.
He looked at her, and for once, his expression wasn’t distant. Just… human. Raw around the edges.
“I should’ve told her more,” he said quietly. “That I loved her. That she made things brighter.”
“Maybe she knew,” Juliana offered.
“Maybe,” he whispered. “But the silence still took its toll.”
The next day, she stayed after class.
She didn’t wait for permission. She waited until the room cleared, then approached his desk.
“I passed a mock exam,” she said, handing him the paper. “Ninety-one percent.”
He skimmed it. “Not bad.”
“It’s my highest yet.”
“You’ve earned it.” A pause. “But the real test is still coming.”
“I’ll pass.”
“I believe you.”
That did it.
The weight of her lie curled against her ribs like smoke.
She turned away too quickly. “Thank you,” she said.
“Juliana,” he said gently.
She didn’t turn.
“You don’t owe me the truth. Not now. But one day if you want to tell it I’ll listen.”
She nodded.
And walked out before he saw her cry.
That night, back in her room, Juliana didn’t change out of her clothes. She curled up on the mattress, her coat still on, shoes untied. Her head throbbed. Her body ached.
But the ache in her chest was the loudest.
Her phone buzzed.
A voice note from her aunt.
She sat up fast.
It was Nacho.
His little voice came through the speaker, weak, nasal, but so bright it hurt.
“Hola, mamá. Today I ate all my jello. Abuela says I’m brave like a dragon. I drew you a picture, but Tía says she can’t send it through the phone. I miss you, Mamá. Te amo. When are you coming?”
Juliana pressed the phone to her chest.
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
I’m coming, baby. I’m doing everything I can. I’m just not fast enough.
She didn’t reply. Not yet. She needed to find the right words.
Instead, she scrolled back through her messages. Stopped on the one from Professor Hargreaves:
“Pass your finals. I’ll do the rest.”
A promise.
A lifeline.
A lie waiting to be undone.
But for tonight, it was a soft place to land.
And that would have to be enough.
- Writer
