Sweet Trouble

Almost a Glimpse

Barbara woke to the soft hum of the city outside her window, the morning light filtering through sheer curtains. For a few moments, she remained still, cocooned in the quiet warmth of her bed. These were the moments she allowed herself to breathe, to exist without expectation. But, as always, reality soon crept in. With a sigh, she pushed herself up and began her morning routine.

Barbara’s apartment was small but meticulously arranged. Not in a cold, magazine-perfect way, but with a sense of quiet intention. Everything had its place. The soft glow of the morning sun filtering through sheer curtains cast golden streaks along the honey-toned wooden floors. The scent of fresh coffee and vanilla lingered in the air—her usual candle had burned through the night again.

She stretched lazily as she stepped into her living room, her bare feet cool against the floor. The space was a mix of warmth and restraint—plush throw blankets draped over a deep brown couch, an old bookshelf filled with well-worn novels, a single armchair positioned near the window where she sometimes sat with a cup of tea but rarely allowed herself the time to enjoy it.

The walls held no family photos. No childhood memories are framed and frozen in time. The only personal touch was a small collection of Polaroids tucked into the corner of a corkboard—pictures of Miriam and Miranda from random nights out, a few blurry shots of sunrises she had taken on her way home from work. In the center of the board, a faded photo remained pinned in place: her parents, standing in front of an old bookstore, her father’s arm around her mother’s waist, both of them grinning at the camera as if they had all the time in the world.

Barbara paused at the sight of it, her fingers grazing the edge of the photo.

It’s been years. Why does it still feel like yesterday?

A deep breath. A blink. She pulled away.

In the kitchen, she moved on autopilot, filling the kettle and reaching for her favorite mug—a dark blue ceramic one with a tiny chip at the rim. A leftover from her teenage years, from a time when she had clung to the idea that some things could stay the same.

As the water heated, she leaned against the counter, her mind drifting.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Most nights, she was too exhausted to notice, collapsing into bed after long shifts at the home. But mornings like these, when she wasn’t in a rush to be somewhere, the silence pressed in.

She turned on the radio—soft jazz hummed through the speakers. A weak attempt to fill the space.

With her tea in hand, she wandered back to the window, staring down at the street below. The city was already awake—commuters rushing, a couple walking their dog, a man in a suit balancing a coffee cup and briefcase as he tried to hail a cab. Life, moving forward.

She took a slow sip, letting the warmth settle in her chest.

Her mind flickered back to the day before. To him.

William Benson.

The name felt like something that should mean more. There was something about him—about the way he looked at her, about the momentary flicker of recognition she thought she saw but couldn’t quite place.

She shook her head, exhaling through her nose. It didn’t matter. He was just another visitor at the home, another person she had no reason to think about.

Still, she found herself staring at the steam curling from her mug, that strange feeling of familiarity nagging at the edges of her mind. But she didn’t have the energy to unravel it, so with a small sigh, she turned away from the window. There was no point getting lost in ghosts of the past.

Then, as if the universe had heard her silent plea for distraction, her phone buzzed.

Miriam: Brunch. No excuses. Miranda’s already ordering.

Barbara exhaled, shaking off the remnants of her thoughts. Desperate for a distraction, she got ready as fast as she could and ran out the front door.

Barbara barely had time to settle into the café booth before Miranda shoved a menu in her direction.

"Order whatever you want. My treat," she announced grandly, flipping her hair like some billionaire heiress.

Barbara arched a brow. "Should I be concerned? Did you win the lottery?"

Miranda scoffed, stirring her mimosa. "Please, B. I always have money, I just choose not to work like a peasant."

Miriam snorted into her coffee. "She means her job is flexible, and she gets to work whenever she wants."

"That’s what I said," Miranda said airily.

Barbara shook her head with a smirk and scanned the menu. "Fine. Since you're paying, I’ll get the most expensive thing here."

Miranda gave a mock glare before turning back to Miriam. “Sooo,” she enthused, “how did Daniel react to what Stephanie said?”

“He was so cool about it. I think I fell in love with him all over again at that moment,” Miriam gushed.

Completely lost on the subject, Barbara placed her order and asked, “Erm, who is Daniel, and why are you falling in love with him twice?”

“You are a terrible friend,” Miriam said in reply.

“Oh my God, how?”

"No, seriously," Miriam continued, setting her cup down with a dramatic sigh. "Daniel is my new boyfriend, and somehow you had no clue because you never hang out with us anymore."

Barbara froze mid-sip. "Wait, what?"

Miriam scowled. "We've been dating for three months."

"Three—what?" Barbara gawked. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

Miriam crossed her arms. "Oh, I tried. But somebody is always ‘too busy’ or ‘too tired’ or ‘working late at the home.’"

Barbara rubbed her temples. "Okay, fair point. But three months, Miri?!"

Miriam shrugged, sipping her coffee. "It’s not a big deal. I mean, he’s sweet, thoughtful, makes me laugh—"

"And he’s hot," Miranda added, wiggling her eyebrows.

Miriam grinned. "That too."

Barbara exhaled, shaking her head. "I really am a terrible friend."

"Yes, but we love you anyway," Miranda said, tossing a sugar packet at her.

Barbara caught it and smiled, something warm settling in her chest.

After brunch, Miranda dragged them on what she called a “therapeutic shopping spree,” though Barbara suspected it was just an excuse for her to swipe her credit card guilt-free. “You know, B,” Miranda said as she flipped through racks of dresses, “you need more color in your wardrobe. Black is chic, but it screams commitment issues.”

Barbara scoffed. “You wear black all the time.”

“Yes, but mine says mystery and power, not that I’ve given up on joy.”

Miriam stifled a laugh, but Miranda wasn’t done. She shoved a lavender dress into Barbara’s hands. “Try this.”

Barbara stared at it. “This isn’t even my size.”

“Details. Details”

Shaking her head, she handed it back and turned to Miriam. “So, tell me more about Daniel. I need details since I missed, apparently, everything.”

Miriam grinned. “He works in security, likes indie films, and makes amazing pancakes.”

Barbara sighed wistfully. “A man who can cook?”

“I know, right?” Miriam beamed. “I’m convinced he’s too good to be real, but so far, no red flags.”

Miranda smirked. “Give it time.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Miriam smacked her arm.

Barbara laughed, watching them bicker like sisters.