Typing…

Nia Carter had written the message eleven times.

Every version started with sorry.

Sorry, I know this is last minute, but…

Sorry to be annoying, I just wondered if…

Soooo sorry, I really hate to say this…

She deleted each one and stared at the empty box, thumb hovering, while the group chat carried on above it without her. Seventeen people. Somebody’s birthday in two weeks. And, like every birthday for as long as she could remember, everyone had quietly assumed Nia would sort it.

Book the restaurant. Chase the deposits. Make the playlist. Order the cake. Remember who’s vegetarian and who’s not speaking to who. Answer the same question nine times. And on the night itself, spend the whole evening making sure everybody else was having a good time, then get the last bus home alone with a headache and a bag full of balloons.

She’s twenty-one. Natural curls, usually pushed back with her hand when she’s thinking. Oversized jumper, jeans, trainers, small gold hoops and a thin necklace she never takes off. If you’ve got a problem, Nia’s your person. If you need a favour, Nia’s already doing it. She can’t say no. She’s tried. The word gets as far as her throat and turns into “Yeah, course, no worries.”

The trouble is, there are always worries. They just end up being hers.

Lately she’d started to notice a feeling she didn’t like. When her phone lit up, before she even saw who it was, something in her went tight. Then she’d feel guilty about going tight, because these were her friends and she loved them. Then she’d say yes to whatever it was, to make up for the guilt. Then she’d feel resentful. Then guilty about the resentment. Round and round, like a washing machine that never finishes its cycle.

She was sitting on the low wall by the community garden, doing exactly this — writing, deleting, writing — when Alyah sat down next to her.

Alyah’s twenty-five and she has a way of arriving without making a fuss about it. She doesn’t do small talk for long.

“You’ve been staring at that phone for ten minutes,” she said. “Your face keeps changing.”

Nia laughed. “It’s nothing. Just the birthday thing.”

“You’re organising it.”

“Obviously.”

“Do you want to?”

Nia opened her mouth to say yeah, course and nothing came out. Alyah waited.

“No,” Nia said finally, very quietly, like it was a swear word. “I’ve got exams. And I’m tired. And I did the last three.”

“So tell them.”

“I’m trying.” She held up the phone. Alyah read the draft over her shoulder.

Hey guys!! So sorry, I feel really bad, I hate saying this, but I don’t think I can organise this one?? Sorry!! Totally fine if not, I can still do it if nobody else can xx

Alyah read it twice. Then she looked at Nia, not unkindly.

“You said sorry three times, said you feel bad, and then offered to do it anyway. In one message.”

Nia stared at the screen. She hadn’t seen it. She’d honestly not seen it.

“You softened it so much it’s not a no any more,” Alyah said. “It’s a yes with extra steps.”

That stung. Mostly because it was true.

“I don’t want them to think I’m being selfish.”

“Is it selfish? Or is it just the first time you’re telling them the truth?”

Nia didn’t have an answer for that. Alyah didn’t give her one either. She just stood up, squeezed Nia’s shoulder, and said, “Your call,” and went.

Across the green, Samuel was on his bench, feeding the pigeons he always says he doesn’t feed. Nia went over. She hadn’t planned to. It’s funny how many people end up at that bench without planning to.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

Samuel moved his bag. “You can ask.”

She explained — the chat, the birthday, the message. It came out in a rush. Samuel listened the way he does, like there’s nothing else happening anywhere in the world.

When she’d finished, he said, “What do you think will happen if you send it? The honest one.”

“They’ll be annoyed. They’ll think I’ve changed. Someone will say something.”

“Maybe,” Samuel said. “And what happens if you don’t send it?”

Nia looked at the phone. She saw the next two weeks. The spreadsheet. The chasing. The bus home with the balloons. And then the next birthday, and the one after that, and a whole life of saying yes while her body said no.

“The same thing happens,” she said. “Forever.”

Samuel didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

She deleted the draft. Wrote a new one. No sorry at the start. No sorry at the end.

Hey all — I can’t organise this one. I’ve got exams and I need to look after myself for a bit. I’d love to come though. Could someone else take it on?

Her thumb shook over the arrow. She pressed it.

Then the worst part. The little dots. Typing… Somebody was typing. The dots came and went. Came back. Her heart was going like she’d run for a bus.

The first reply came through.

Omg course!! Thank you for telling us. You literally always do everything. I’ll do it x

Then another. Good luck with exams babe. Then another. I can do the cake.

Nia read them and felt something unfamiliar. Not guilt. Not relief exactly, either. More like her shoulders had been up by her ears for months and had just, very slowly, come down.