Helena:
I had barely landed at Heathrow when the airline managed to misplace my luggage.
Of course it got sent off on some other flight. Just my luck.
According to the woman at the lost and found desk—who seemed thoroughly unimpressed by my rising panic—said I wouldn’t be seeing my things until next week.
Great. As if this trip wasn’t already stressful enough.
Coming to the UK for my first semester at Cambridge was supposed to be my clean slate. My chance to finally take control. To start anew. I’d been accepted into the literature program—an actual scholarship to study the very thing I’d only ever dreamed about while stuck in a life that never felt like mine.
For years, I’d lived in the shadow of an ex who made sure of that. He’d love-bomb me one minute, gaslight me the next, until I couldn’t tell up from down. And like the fool I was, I believed him. I believed the dream he sold me was better than the one I wanted for myself.
It wasn’t until my father finally stepped in—more out of exasperation than anything else—that I woke up. He’d threatened to cut me off completely unless I did something with myself. And when I pushed back, he’d shoved proof in my face, evidence from a private investigator that my boyfriend had been cheating. For years. Years!
God. I was such an idiot.
But this—this was supposed to be my reset. My ticket out of that mess. Only… it was already off to a rough start.
Of course, I didn’t want to lean on my father either. I didn’t want to call him over every little mishap like some helpless little girl. I already hated that he’d been right about my ex—that he’d seen what I couldn’t. And this whole lost luggage situation would only rub more salt in the wound.
No, this time would be different.
I’d prove I was independent. Strong. All that feminist theory I’d buried myself in over the summer, all the self-help books I devoured to stitch my confidence back together—they weren’t just words on a page anymore. This was my chance to live them.
I hugged my cross-bag closer and breathed through the ache of exhaustion.
So I’d lost my luggage. Fine. I’d make it work. Because if I couldn’t… then maybe I hadn’t really become this whole new person I claimed to be.
It had taken over an hour to sort out the lost luggage claim, and by the time I wrestled my way out of Heathrow’s chaos, navigated the express to King’s Cross, and hopped onto the Thameslink headed north, I’d already burned through whatever patience I had left. Sure, I could’ve taken the Great Northern line direct—but of course, I misheard the information and ended up on the one that made a dozen stops along the way.
Figures.
I’d apparently given up on making anything easy for myself today.
Finally settled on the train, I sank into a window seat and leaned back, dragging a hand down my face as I stared out at the blur of passing buildings. The rhythm of the carriage thrummed beneath me—steady, indifferent—as I tried to calm my nerves and catch my breath.
It would take about an hour and a half to get to Cambridge from here. Then I’d finally be settled in. I’d text my father to let him know I’d made it—and hopefully get some much-needed rest. I’d skip the part about the luggage and just deal with it myself. After all, I was on my own here. And from now on, I’d have more than just a suitcase full of clothes to worry about. This was me, untethered. No one watching over me. No constant veil of worry hovering at my shoulder. Just me now.
For the first half hour or so, things didn’t seem so bad. The sky was partly cloudy, patches of pale light breaking through like it might even turn into a decent afternoon. But the further the train carried me away from London, the heavier the clouds became. Thick, low, gray—the kind that promised rain, not maybe, but definitely.
And that was when I realized it.
My jacket was gone.
I rifled through my things in the seat beside me, dragging my small personal bag into my lap—the only thing I had left. It held just the essentials: my electronics and a single change of clothes. Just enough to get me through one night. Because, you know… emergencies. But I hadn’t prepared for an emergency that might last a week—or longer, judging by the way that agent spoke to me. Whatever I had packed was hardly enough to get me through the start of an entire semester.
Still, I rummaged through it anyway, desperate, even though I already knew the truth. Somewhere between getting off at the gate, baggage claim, and my mad dash through the terminal, the jacket had slipped away. Lost to the chaos. Just like everything else.
Great. Just perfect. Another thing to add to the list.
England was famous for two things: history and rain. I’d hoped, stupidly, that arriving in late September might mean I’d get a reprieve. Back home on the Canadian east coast, September could still surprise you with a burst of golden warmth. But here? The gray outside my window said otherwise.
I slumped against the seat, blowing a dark strand of my hair out of my face.
I could handle the lost luggage. The desk agent. The chaos of the airport. I could even handle the gnawing ache of jet lag. But no jacket—in England? Seriously?
That felt like the final punchline.
I tipped my head back against the seat, glaring at the ceiling and cursing inwardly.
Jesus. How much more of a mess could I be?
With a sigh, I forced myself to think. I needed a plan. A jacket was non-negotiable.
It was still early enough that I could, technically, head all the way back to Heathrow and check lost and found. But after the circus it had been just trying to get out of that place, the thought of going back made one thing abundantly clear: it’d be easier to buy a one-way ticket home and forget this whole Cambridge idea altogether.
So—new plan. I’d buy one. Simple.
Except… would anything even be open by the time I got to Cambridge?
Maybe.
But London—London had to have something. I wasn’t even completely out of its vicinity yet. Going back a few stations would probably drop me close enough to some sort of clothing store.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the link train’s lines, tracing where they intersected with the London Underground. If I got off at one of these stations, I could circle back into the city. Easy enough.
Except suddenly, everything went dim as we passed through an underground tunnel—and the map froze. The screen wouldn’t budge. I jabbed at it, swiped, tried again. Nothing.
“Fine,” I muttered under my breath. Whatever. The next station looked decent enough. I’d just get off, cross the track, head back the other way until I saw shops, grab a jacket, and catch the next train out.
The sky came back into view, the lights bright again—except the next station seemed to take forever. We’d been stopping every five minutes up until now, but this one crawled along like it was never going to end.
The voice over the intercom was so garbled and staticky I could barely make it out, but it didn’t matter. A station was a station—and they all led back to the same place. It’d be a quick stop. Just hop off, grab a jacket, and get back on.
Finally, the intercom called out the next station—though I could barely make it out through the garble and static—I practically jumped out of my seat. I grabbed my bag the moment the train came to a full stop and stepped off. But the instant my feet hit the platform, anxiety clawed at me.
This plan had seemed so much easier in my head.
What was I even doing? I didn’t know my way around this city—let alone the outskirts. What if I got lost? What if I got robbed?
Too late. The doors slid closed with a hiss, and the train rumbled off, its wheels screeching faintly as it disappeared down the track.
Thunder rolled in the distance, low and restless, and here I was—standing on some half-empty platform, wondering how on earth I’d thought this would work. I should’ve just stayed put. Kept going straight through to Cambridge. I could’ve been at the inn I’d rented until my apartment was ready—checked in, dropped my bag, settled. In and out of the train so quick. A roof over my head and this whole mess behind me in no time.
But no. For some reason, the importance of a jacket had won out in my mind—when in reality, it wasn’t important at all.
Not that any of the planning mattered, because of course that was the exact moment the heavens opened and dumped half of London’s weather on me.
Great. Just effing great.
ns216.73.216.211da2
and then Add to home screen.