What We Were

“If you ever find out what I did, promise you won't hate me.”

Danielle said it around a forkful of yellow cake.

Sharon didn't look up from her napkin. “You? Keep a secret?”

“I can keep secrets.”

“You told me about your sister’s positive test before the ink was even dry.”

“She needed support.”

“She needed ten minutes to process it.”

Danielle slid her fork across the small marble table and took the corner of Sharon’s slice. Sharon swatted her hand away, but the cream was already gone.

“You weren’t eating it,” Danielle said.

“I was pacing myself.”

“You’ve been pacing that bite for ten minutes.” Danielle’s laugh broke sharp and clear across the small café, loud enough that a man reading a paperback two tables over glanced up and smiled.

Sharon shook her head, but her own mouth betrayed her. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you keep paying for my coffee.”

“I’m reconsidering.”

“No, you’re not.”

Sharon wasn't. That was the anchor of it. Danielle had slipped into her life years ago without a grand entry, settling into the architecture until every joke had a double layer and every quiet evening had a twin. They knew the precise difference between an I’m fine meant to invite questions and an I’m fine meant to shut the door.

When they stepped outside, the air smelled of wet asphalt and incoming rain. Danielle hooked her elbow through Sharon’s, pulling her slightly off balance.

“Come home with me. I bought that red wine you like.”

“I have files to review.”

“You always have files.”

“Because I have a job.”

“So do I.”

“Danielle, you’ve been between contracts since May.”

Danielle stopped dead on the curb. “Why would you say that out loud?”

Sharon laughed, feeling the cold rain start to hit her forehead. “Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m really not.”

“Buy me an ice cream, then.”

At the junction near the bus stop, Danielle pulled out her phone, screen brightness cranked up against the grey afternoon. “Look at this.”

It was a posting for a senior coordinator role. The salary was almost double what Sharon made now. The location was four hours north.

Sharon’s fingers hesitated over the glass. “You should apply for this.”

“It’s in Leeds.”

“So?”

“My life is here,” Danielle said. Her eyes flicked across Sharon’s face—a quick, calculating scan that vanished before Sharon could read it. “Maybe your life is too small here.”

Sharon frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Danielle tucked the phone back into her coat pocket. “Just apply. Stop overthinking every exit.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think. Apply.” Danielle squeezed her forearm hard enough to leave a faint thumb-print red against her pale skin. “You’re bossy, Sharon, but you’re scared.”

That hit the silence between them like a dropped coin. Sharon looked at her friend, at the familiar line of her scarf, the smudge of cake frosting near her thumb and smiled softly.

“Okay,” Sharon said. “I’ll send the CV tonight.”

Neither of them marked the moment. They didn't know it was the last evening they would laugh without calculating the cost of it first.

Three weeks later, the offer letter arrived by email at 7:00 AM.

When Sharon called, Danielle picked up on the fifth ring.

“I got it,” Sharon breathed into the receiver. “Danielle, they gave it to me.”

The line held a thin, static hiss.

“Danielle?”

“I’m here.”

“You don't sound excited.”

A pause, then a quick exhale that was meant to pass as a chuckle. “I am. Of course I am. I’m just... surprised. When do you go?”

“Next month. It’s a six-month contract to start.”

“Oh.” The word was flat, unvarnished.

“I’ll come back on weekends,” Sharon said quickly, filling the drop. “It’s only two hours on the fast train.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Okay.”

The packing took three weeks of dust and tape. Danielle sat on the bare floorboards of Sharon’s living room every evening, wrapping wine glasses in newspaper and arguing over whether Sharon needed eight pairs of black boots. She folded Sharon’s coats with methodical care, her wrists working in silent, practiced loops.

On the morning the van arrived, Danielle stood by the passenger door, arms crossed tight over a heavy sweater despite the morning heat.

“You’re acting like I’m going to another continent,” Sharon said, trying to catch her eye.

“You’re leaving,” Danielle said.

“I’m taking a job.”

“Same thing.”

Sharon pulled her into a hug. Danielle felt small against her, rigid as pine. “Come up next weekend,” Sharon murmured. “I’ll show you the apartment.”

Danielle nodded into her shoulder. “I promise.”

She didn't come the next weekend. Or the one after.

At first, the distance was bridged by short text updates: photos of Sharon’s cramped kitchen, complaints about the radiator, a joke about the senior analyst who brought cold soup to meetings. Danielle replied with thumbs-up emojis and short sentences.

Then Sharon met Marcus from logistics, and Maya from marketing. The updates grew longer, sprinkled with names Danielle had never heard.

“Marcus took three of us to that tapas place on standard street,” Sharon said over the phone one Tuesday, her speakerphone crackling as she unpacked groceries. “You’d love their croquettes.”

“Marcus,” Danielle repeated. The tone was cool, clinical. “Is he the one with the ex-wife?”

“No, that’s David. Marcus is the one who—”

“Right. I lose track of all the new people.”

Sharon stopped holding the jar of pasta sauce. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine. Just tired. My sister’s visiting.”

“Tell her I said hi.”

“She didn't ask about you,” Danielle said, and hung up before the line could settle.

The calls tapered from daily to bi-weekly, then to unanswered texts that lingered for days before receiving brief, polite excuses: Bad signal at the house. Headache. Work stuff.

The break didn't happen with a fight. It happened on a Thursday night when a photo appeared on Sharon’s feed—posted by an old mutual friend from home.

It was a picture from a local pub patio. Danielle was sitting in the corner, a glass of gin in her hand, laughing at something being said by the man beside her.

It was Mark. Sharon’s ex-boyfriend—the one who had cleared out her savings account two years ago, the one Danielle had spent three nights holding Sharon on the bathroom floor over. In the photo, Danielle’s body was angled toward him, her knee touching his leg.

Sharon stared at the blue light of her screen until her eyes burned. She called. It went straight to voicemail. She texted: Are you serious?

Ten minutes later, a reply came back from Danielle: Don't come back here making a scene, Sharon. Please.

Sharon bought a morning train ticket.

The hall outside Danielle’s apartment smelled of boiled cabbage and old carpet. Sharon didn't knock softly; she hit the wood three times with the flat of her palm.

The door pulled open six inches. Danielle stood in the gap, wearing an old t-shirt, her hair pinned up messily. She looked thin, the sharp edges of her collarbone prominent under the light.

“What are you doing here?” Danielle whispered.

“You didn't answer your phone.”

“I told you not to come.”

Sharon pushed the door open slightly further. In the hallway behind Danielle, a jacket was hanging on the peg—a dark suede jacket Sharon recognized instantly.

Sharon’s breath caught in her throat. “Why him, Danielle?”

Danielle’s gaze didn't drop. Her face was set in a hard, defensive quiet. “He called me three weeks ago. He was asking how you were.”

“He stole four thousand pounds from me.”

“He was lonely. So was I.”

“You told me he was poison. You told me to change my locks.”

“That was when you were here,” Danielle said. Her voice didn't rise; it stayed low, almost conversational, which made it worse. “You don't get to manage my life from two hundred miles away, Sharon.”

“Manage your life?” Sharon stepped closer, her voice tight with disbelief. “I called you every three days! I begged you to come up!”

“To sit in your guest room while you talk about Marcus and Maya?” Danielle’s mouth twisted. “To watch you build a life that doesn't have a spot reserved for me?”

The corridor was completely quiet. Downstairs, a radiator clanked twice.

“You didn't want me to take that job,” Sharon said slowly, the realization assembling itself piece by piece. “You didn't want me to grow. You wanted me scared so I’d stay right here with you.”

Danielle’s eyes welled up, but her chin remained set. “I pushed you to apply.”

“Because you thought I wouldn't get it,” Sharon whispered. “Or because you thought I’d hate it and come back.”

Danielle didn't deny it. A tear slipped down her cheek, leaving a faint clean track through the dust on her skin. “I just didn't want to be the person left behind in the old town.”

Sharon looked at her—at the familiar curl of her hair, the sweater she’d borrowed a dozen times, the eyes that had watched her grow up. The anger drained out, leaving behind a cold, heavy grey weight.

“I loved you,” Sharon said.

Danielle reached out, her fingers hovering near Sharon’s wrist, not quite touching. “Sharon, please. It’s just Mark. I’ll tell him to leave.”

Sharon took one step back, out of reach. “It’s not about Mark.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don't know how to look at you without wondering what else you’re waiting for me to lose.”

Sharon turned toward the stairwell.

“Sharon!” Danielle called out into the narrow hall. Her voice hit the concrete walls and bounced back. “Please!”

Sharon didn't answer. She reached the top of the concrete stairs, pulled the heavy fire door open, stepped through into the stairwell, and pulled it firmly shut behind her, closing the door on Danielle once and for all.