Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I look over myself. I got up early this morning, showered, washed and blow-dried my hair, and even did my makeup. After the emotional rollercoaster I had felt yesterday, I needed to feel back in control of things; my appearance being the easiest place to start. My deep auburn brown hair is now sitting below my breasts, well overdue for a trim and my curves are on full display; my favourite high-waisted jeans, hugging all the right places.

Deciding that I look and feel too good to just wait around, I grab a coat, my handbag and head out. Outside the sun is shining, but you can see from the cars parked along Cardigan Avenue that the frost has only just melted off their windscreens. Dew is dripping from the trees on the sidewalk and everyone still has their extra layer on. It is Melbourne weather after all, you have to layer all year round.

I wrap my arms around myself to keep the cool breeze from sweeping up under my outer layers. It’s only a two-block walk from my apartment to a cosy little cafe that makes the BEST raspberry white chocolate muffins. This time of year they always have the fireplace lit and due to the cold, not too many people visit, which makes it my go-to. It’s hard to find even a semi-quiet spot in the hustle and bustle of the city.

The bell on the door chimes as I enter and a welcoming warmth soothes my chilled skin. Raw exposed brick lines the cafe walls, the lighting warm like your bedside lamp and vintage couches arch around the fireplace, this space screams comfort and reminds me of back home.

I cringe at the thought of home, a feeling I seem to be always chasing. I envy those who have parents still living in their childhood home. I often wonder what it would feel like to be able to walk back through the front door one more time. To stand in a house with memories, with laughter stained onto the walls. A house where you experienced the joy of Christmas morning. A childhood bedroom, a window which you climbed out of, walls that muffled the sounds of your first broken heart. Home.

Betty glances up over the coffee machine. “Kinsley, my dear,” she exclaims.

“Morning, Mrs Campbell.” I offer her a genuine smile, quickly closing the door on my broken inner child.

“Aren’t you looking delightful today? Take a seat over near the fireplace and keep warm. I’ll get your usual together for you.”