After Us

Seven years ago—-The Note That Stayed

The week flew by without Layla noticing. Friday crawls in like a thief, stealing her time and energy.

Her key jangled loudly in the lock, and she pushed the door open, stepping into the dim light of their small apartment.

The room carried its usual scent—the apartment smelt like old coffee with something else hanging in the air. The place was small and worn down, with peeling wallpaper and a saggy sofa beside an untidy coffee table.

Layla hesitated as she closed the door behind her. Her mother was asleep on the sofa, still in her work uniform, a thin blanket barely wrapping her.

An empty mug is seated next to a pile of unpaid bills. Layla sighed at the sight.

Quietly, she put her own bag down and carefully drew a thicker blanket over her mother.

The action stirred her. “Lay?” Megan’s voice came out dizzy but laced with its normal worry. “You’re late again.”

“I know,” Layla replied, her tone steady but soft as she slid out her shoes. “Missed the bus.”

Megan pushed herself upright, yawning as she dragged her blanket closer. “You’re working too much, Lay. You need time for school, for yourself. For something other than that job.”

Layla grabbed the stray coffee mug on the table, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “It’s just a job, Mom. I need it. You know that.”

“You’re nineteen, Lay…not thirty-five. I’m worried about you.”.

Megan sighed, her voice heavy with tiredness. “You’re not supposed to take all this on. You’re too young to feel this tired.”

“I’m not like other teenagers, okay? You need help, and this is what I can do. Besides—” she paused, signalling the pile of bills with the mug. “I don’t see them disappearing on their own, she added.

Her mom sank back onto the sofa, running a hand over her face. The lines on her forehead appeared deeper tonight, worry etched permanently into her skin. “I know, Lay, I know,” she said, her voice breaking just slightly.

“I’m fine. Mom” Layla walked past her, heading into the kitchen. “And you? You’ve been at the coffee shop for over twelve hours today.”

Her mother breathed out and leaned against the counter, eyes shutting briefly. “I’m managing.”

They both knew she wasn’t, but Layla didn't want to argue further.

An awkward silence filled the room, one Layla didn’t dare break. She walked towards the kitchen sink, giving her hands something to do with the dishes piled in the sink.

From the other room, her mom spoke softly, almost to herself. “Your dad called.”

Layla stilled. The words cut sharper than expected, hitting her straight in the gut.

“Why?” she asked, her voice clipped. She didn’t care for the answer anyway.

“Just to check in,” Megan replied. The sadness in her voice was subtle but clear. “He’s… fine, I guess.”

Layla scoffed, letting out a bitter laugh. “Of course, he’s fine. Isn’t he always fine? While we’re here holding everything together.”

“Layla, don’t—”

“What, Mom? It’s the truth!” Layla’s voice cracked, raw and sharp. “He’s out there, wherever, living his life. Meanwhile, you’re killing yourself working extra shifts just so we can keep the lights on.”

“Layla, don’t start,” Megan warned, her voice tight with exhaustion.

“But that’s true, Mum,” Layla shot back, unable to stop herself now. “It’s him who left us! And now you’re telling me we’re supposed to be grateful for his once-in-a-blue-moon calls?”

Megan sighed deeply, that drowsy sound Layla hated most. It was the sound of submission, of someone too tired to fight anymore. “Your father has his own struggles, Layla. It’s not that simple.”

Layla scoffed, the anger in her chest swelling. “Struggles? That’s rich. Tell me, Mom, what part of running away counts as struggling?”

“Enough, Layla.” Her mom’s voice wavered but held firm this time. “He’s still your father.”

“Barely,” Layla said.

“Maybe you should stop taking sides, Mum,” Layla added, her voice cutting, her hands grabbing the rim of the counter.

Her mom sighed again, running a hand over her face as if trying to erase the argument. “Please… not tonight.”

Layla’s dad had always kept his distance, not totally due to work, but because of a personal fallout with Megan.

It wasn’t just that he wasn’t there—it was the emotional void he left behind. He never truly cared for them, and his quiet exit made it clear he had chosen to walk away from both Layla and Megan.

The last time Layla saw him was three years ago on Christmas, and even then, he barely acknowledged them, further confirming his disconnect.”

Layla clenched her jaw but said nothing, the words on the tip of her tongue bruising her throat as she swallowed them down. Instead, she bent back to the dishes, focusing on the rhythm of the cool water splashing over her hands.

As Layla patted her hands, her eyes landed on a familiar book on the counter—The Old Man and the Sea. Her movement slowed.

A memory flashed. She reached for it hastily, pulling the small paperback closer. Tucked into its pages was the note from last Friday.

“Don’t keep Hemingway waiting.” She read the note aloud, and a faint smile tugged at her lips, pulling her back to the bookshop moments later. For a second, the weight of the evening lifted.

Her fingers wavered on the note, and suddenly, Evan’s voice was there in her mind, as easy and warm as the smile she tried not to replay over and over.

How could just a few words on paper carry so much life? Her gaze stayed on the book for longer than she intended.

Then suddenly she realized. She hadn’t kept that promise, had she?

She looked at the wall clock; it ticked loudly in the quiet apartment. It was exactly 5:12 pm. The evening was still young, and the bookshop wasn’t far. Before she could rethink, she had already grabbed her jacket.

“I’ll be right back. Mum, Layla murmured, already moving toward the door.

“Wait, Layl—” Megan started, but the words faded as the door shut.

Layla told herself it was about keeping promises. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t.