Anastasia.🌷🌷

I clear the last of my boxes away, somewhat impressed by my hard work. I've managed to unpack all my belongings, which—sadly—isn't a lot. Over the years, I've accumulated very little. Josh monitored what I bought and insisted I ran everything by him. In the end, I stopped. Not because I was scared (which I was) but because I no longer found joy in treating myself. I wasn't worth nice clothes or cute jewellery. I didn't deserve the expensive lipstick. Josh didn't just control my spending habits; he controlled my every thought. He controlled how I saw myself. How I still see myself. That's that part I'm finding hardest to swallow. I left him a month ago and he still has such a strong hold over me. He's still influencing my every decision.

"I like this," informs Nan, holding up a plant pot.

Catherine Mason—AKA my nan—is the most wonderful person in the world and without her, I wouldn't be here. She raised me after Mum died and for the longest time, it was only the two of us. She lost her husband (my grandpops) three years before I was born. I didn't know the man, but I feel as though I do with the endless stories she tells. Her hilarious tales keeps his spirit alive. Mum's too.

"It's a snake plant," I explain. "It's supposed to purify the air at night."

"We should grow marijuana!"

Oh my God!

"NAN!!"

"Helen has it all the time. Says it's good for her joints."

Helen—Nan's ride or die—is the definition of rebellious. As a kid, I remember wanting to be just like her. Carefree and adventurous. The pair of them together are—quite frankly—a fucking disaster. Neither one of them owns a shred of responsibility between them and rely purely on charm to get them out of certain situations. And believe me, they're known for getting themselves into certain situations. Like Nan, Helen's husband died many years ago. Unlike Nan, she doesn't talk about him.

"Helen is sixty-seven and doesn't suffer with joint pain," I chastise.

Nan smirks.

"Besides, we can't. I live next door to a police officer."

This piques her interest.

"Do you really?"

"Yes."

"Is he hot?"

I both love and hate how that was her first question.

"Very."

She grins.

"But I'm mad at him right now."

"Why?" she asks, positioning my plant on the windowsill.

Although her frown lines are deep, Nan doesn't have one wrinkle on her face. She's taken great care of herself over the years and still has regular trips to the hairdressers. She only ever puts the 'good stuff' on her face and is a bit of a snob when it comes to beauty products. When I was thirteen and told her I wanted to experiment with makeup, she took me to Chanel.

Fucking Chanel!

"He kept me up all night," I explain, decorating my coffee table by placing a scented candle on it.

I don't usually bother with candles, but Natasha from work got me it as a move-in gift.

"Doing what?" asks Nan, flattening the three cardboard boxes by her feet.

I contemplate lying, unsure if I can trust her with such information.

"Having sex with his girlfriend."

Who am I kidding? Nan lives for this sort of thing and I'm certainly not about to deny the woman.

"NO WAY!"

Her eyes light up like a Christmas tree. I've always thought Nan had the most expressive set of eyes I've ever seen. Emerald green and mischievous as hell, they have the potential to achieve wonderful things. When combined with her wonderful wardrobe and blonde hair, Nan certainly has no trouble attracting attention. Not that she ever wants it. She hasn't been on a single date since grandpops died and although part of me thinks that's sad, it's a testament to the love they both shared.

"I have to see this hot police officer for myself!"

What?

"Nan, no!"

Before I can stop her, she's making her way towards my front door. I contemplate rugby tackling her to the ground but decide against it. I doubt I'd be able to take her out anyway. The woman is stronger than anyone I know.

"Nan, don't!" I stress, trying my best to catch up with her.

By the time I detangle myself from the coffee table legs and reach her side, she's already at Freddie's door, knocking.

"You didn't," I gawk.

She smirks. "Oh, I did."

Seconds later, Freddie answers looking well put together in dark jeans and a T-shirt. The green material brings out the richness in his eyes and I can't help but stare. His polite smile is wonderful to look at and I can't tear my gaze away from his brilliant build.

"Well, hello Freddie."

Nan's impressed.

"I'm Catherine—Anastasia's Nan. I thought I'd come over and introduce myself to her new neighbour."

I awkwardly stand to her left, struggling not to die on the spot. Why is this the most humiliating thing I've ever had to endure?

"Hello, Catherine," greets Freddie, shooting her a smile. "Pleasure to meet you."

His swings his gaze across to mine and smiles. "Settling in alright?"

"Actually, we need a strong man like you," informs Nan.

I quickly nudge her hip. "No, we don't. We'll manage."

"Ana, your TV is a tonne weight. How is a frail, old woman such as myself supposed to help you?"

Frail old woman, my arse!

Just last week she single handily carried seven bottles of wine for her weekly book club. Like I said, the woman is stronger than anyone I know.

"I would get her boyfriend to help, but she doesn't have one."

Oh my god!

"Subtle, Nan," I mumble.

She completely disregards my comment. "Her last one was what I would call a total fucking waste of space."

"NAN!"

Freddie—unable to hold back—bursts out laughing.

"I imagine you know what I mean, given your line of work?"

"Oh, absolutely," he agrees, smirking. "I've met my fair share of men who are 'a total fucking waste of space'."

Once again, his gaze lands on mine and I can't help but smile in retaliation. "I thought you police officers were supposed to remain impartial?"

"We're supposed to," he replies. "But when a man doesn't realise what he's got right in front of him, I can't help but brand him a total fucking waste of space."

Nan—sensing our familiarity—looks suspiciously between the two of us.

"Freddie arrested Josh last month, Nan," I explain, putting her curiosity to rest.

"Oh?" Her eyes widen in delight. "Really?"

I nod, firing a quick glance at Freddie.

Neither of us have brought up our previous interaction and I have a feeling Freddie wouldn't've until I did. He strikes me as the type to allow people the privilege of going at their own pace and I'm grateful for that.

"Well, I'm not sure how to tell you this, Anastasia. But I think I might be in love with your new neighbour."

"Andddddd, we're leaving," I announce, yanking on her arm.

Freddie smirks as I drag Nan back into the apartment, showing no sign of mercy.

"Anastasia?"

I slam the door behind Nan and turn to face Freddie.

"Yeah?"

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

I know he's being polite, but I still haven't gotten my revenge on him for keeping me up all night. And if I let him into my apartment now, he'll think all is forgiven.

"Just one thing," I tell him.

He quirks a brow.

"Keep in down tonight."

With that, I spin on my heel and strut back into my apartment, making sure to add a slight spring to my step. It's hardly the payback I had in mind, but I'll think of something soon. In the meantime, Freddie knows I'm here to play.

He knows I'm here to win.

Game on, neighbour!

***

I climb into bed with a sense of victory, happy with my new home and how it looks. I've never had a place like this to myself before. I met Josh straight out of university and lived with him until last month. Before that, I house shared with a few friends and while it was nice, it's not the same as having an entire apartment to yourself. It's great having a space that only I'm responsible for. I can decorate it how I like without having to run it by someone else first. Everything I do is for me. Every choice comes from me. That being said, in order for that to hold some truth, I have to actually make a choice in the first place. I'm no good at thinking independently and find I'm being more and more indecisive by the day. I suspect that's normal. I can't simply walk away from a four year abusive relationship and expect to have my old self back within a matter of weeks. This kind of recovery can take months. Years, even. Or so all the self-help leaflets say. I haven't had control over my finances in so long and as a result, I'm battling with numerous money blocks. I have it. Money, I mean. It's the ability to spend it on things that aren't food or home essentials that I don't have.

"Forget about that," I state, hoping that by saying it out loud, I somehow diminish the thought.

I reposition myself into a seated position in and amongst my sheets and close my eyes, attempting to reach optimum relaxation. Once there, I repeat my daily mantra over and over until I'm sick of the sound of my own voice.

"I am strong, successful and worthy of love. I am not a reflection of my past."

I'm on my seventh loop when a consistent banging takes place against my bedroom wall, exactly like last night. I immediately open my eyes and gawk, thinking he can't be fucking serious.

"JUST KIDDING!" I hear him shout.

I can't help but laugh.

"I hate you!" I yell, smirking so much it hurts.

I collapse back onto my bed and smile up at my ceiling. When I was younger, I used to have three stars dotted on my bedroom ceiling and at night, I would make a promise on each one.

Become a nurse and help people.

Visit Paris in the summer.

Get a tattoo.

If young Ana could see me now, I wonder what she'd think? Would she be impressed? People tell me I'm brave and should be proud. And I'm trying to be, but something feels missing. How can I be proud when part of me still hates myself for what happened? For what I allowed to happen. Nan raised me with strong beliefs and a firm attitude. She'd be ashamed if she knew the true extent of what went on behind closed doors.

"Hey, Anastasia?"

Freddie's voice—despite being separated by a wall—is very clear.

"Yeah?"

It feels strange having a conversation this way.

"I'm glad you got out."

I remain silent, though do let slip a small smile. I have a feeling this isn't police officer Freddie talking, but rather concerned Freddie. The Freddie I remember meeting at the hospital last year. The man with generous eyes and a soft smile.

"I thought about you a lot,' he admits.

"You did?"

"More than I should've."

I don't know what to say.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Not really," I reply.

It's the first time I've answered that question with honesty. Perhaps it because I'm feeling particularly in tune with my emotions tonight. Or maybe it's because I'm talking to a literal brick wall? Either way, it feels good to tell the truth for once.

"Neither am I," he replies voice sad.

I don't pry for information or insult him by saying it'll all be fine. Instead, I respond the only way I know how.

"Hey, Freddie."

"Yeah?"

"I thought about you a lot too," I share, focusing on the floral pattern on my bedding.

Its colours remind me of spring.

"I like that," he says.

I hate not knowing what he looks like right now. What position he's in. I can only go off my imagination and I'm imagining him lying in bed like me, staring up at his ceiling. I detect a slight sadness to his tone and hate that I can't do anything to help. Perhaps that's how he feels when he sees me?

"Night, Freddie."

No more is said between the wall. I continue to stare up at my ceiling and reiterate the promises I once made to myself, only now with a slight alteration.

Get a tattoo.

Visit Paris in the summer.

Be okay again.

✨✨✨✨

Hello, lovely!💕

It's ALREADY happening... cute conversations through their bedroom wall.

Who do you think will be the first to initiate things? Anastasia or Freddie? VOTE NOW!

Annnnnd, for Freddie's version of events,  click the button below. Enjoy!

Don't forget to vote, lovely! ⭐️

Speak soon,

Rebecca