I’m supposed to be embarking on a health binge. At least that’s what I told myself during last night’s pep talk in the mirror. My body’s a cathedral, as graceful as the sun is warm. You know the speil. Healthy living, heathy mind. Yeah, cool story, bro. On second thoughts, I think I’d like to pack this sacred chapel of mine with puddles of cream and heaps of sugar for an afternoon. Leave me alone, yea? Let me get freaky with a few too many calories for a bit. After all, I’m on a quest today. A venture to resurrect the corpse of a project I’ve allowed to rot for far too long. I think a treat or two will accompany this ordeal quite nicely.

The barista behind the counter smiles at me. It’s warm, welcoming, lustful perhaps. He promises to bring my Biscoff pie and latte over in a few clicks. He flashes a cheeky wink my way as he fires up the brewer.

I’m pretty sure he fancies me. Not that I’m trying to toot my own horn, or anything like that. I’m no Cameron Diaz, and I certainly don’t potter through life assuming every guy salivates at the sight of me (though the superficial department in my noggin probably yearns for that). He’s just dishing out that vibe, if you get my drift. The chap’s a curious cricket, I can sense it in his body language. That’s nice. I kinda fancy him too, if truth be told. Tall, slim, shaven head; just how I like them, if we’re being honest with one another. Not that I’m interested in entertaining such a notion, mind you. In another timeline, perhaps. My heart’s much too sore for that sort of jazz in this universe.

I perch myself in my favourite spot. A cute little sofa, tucked away in the comfiest of corners. A glorious den to hide away in; concealed from any nosey patrons who may recognise my daft mug. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good natter when I’m in the right mood, but let me tell you now, that mood’s living it large in Ibiza as we speak. At this point in my timeline, I’d much rather exist in Ella’s hidden bubble. It’s why I’ve booked a fortnight off of work. I’m taking a rest from the familiar faces of my daily routine, until I’m refreshed and ready to brave reality.

The decision to come here today wasn’t an easy one. I’ve been telling myself to drag my heap along for weeks now. It used to be my weekly hideaway, back in the days before Dean waltzed along and took up a spot in one of my life’s numerous chapters. Back in those innocent, pre-Dean days, I’d scuttle on up here with a notepad and my sketchbook, ready to lose myself in the world of Silicone Diamonds. I’d scribble and dream until I was all shrivelled up. Quite the creative mill, I was.

Dean’s arrival in my life knocked that habit right out the window. Friday night dreamweaving was replaced with candle-lit dates and spontaneous trips to Soho. Not that I’m trying to blame him for my years of procrastination. We were young and in love. If anyone had a choice to work on their graphic novel, or get swept off your feet by the sexy physical trainer who decided he fancied them, chances are they’d choose the latter. Also, hindsight suggests I was looking for an excuse to kick the can of dreams down the road. Dean just gave me an alibi to not get stuff done.

But then Dean packed his bags and went to continue his life elsewhere. He scarpered off into the sunset with our pet cat, Minty, and some shiny new girlfriend he met at his running club. Not that I’m jealous, or anything like that. Oh, alright, you’ve caught me in a fib. I was ridiculously jealous. We’re talking green in the boobs kind of envy. Resent and insecurity pulsed through my veins after that bombshell dropped. You should have seen the tantrums I threw when he told me he’d met someone else. I was like a toddler who’d lost a bag of sweets. Not a pretty sight, unless you like seeing people fly off the handles, in which case, I was a show for the ages.

Evenings became a right proper vacuum after he left. I wasn’t carving out time for cheeky cuddles or trips to swanky bars in central London. Those treats weren’t on the menu any longer. Instead it was just me, my thoughts, and the underlying taunts of self-loathing whispering from the lower levels of my subconscious. I needed to fill the silence with something. Anything to reduce the likelihood of me spiralling into a puddle of despair. I could hear the clock ticking closer toward D-day, and I sure as heck didn’t fancy waiting around to get my skin melted off by the blast of my own radioactive wad of neurosis.

It’s fair to say I didn’t take Dean’s indefinite sabbatical from my life all too well. I spent most my evenings sobbing into pillows whilst listening to Celine Dion on repeat. Oi, you at the back, don’t judge! I’m a creature of drama. If listening to Let’s Talk About Love back-to-back whilst draining my tear ducks helped ease the sting, so be it. Except it wasn’t helping, at least not after a while. Plus I’d started to become a touch insufferable, if I’m being completely frank. My friends stopped awkwardly patting me on the shoulder, and started inviting me out less. Not very nice, you may think, but when you burst out sobbing each time someone reminds you of your hunky ex, it gets a little rough to have a good time. There’s only so many times my pals can apologise after their mention of strawberry mousse sends me into a flood of tears (Dean’s fave. He was obsessed wit the creamy little skippers).  Things needed to change. I needed to stop moping and start living. I needed to do something productive. Something that made me feel a little more important and a little less rubbish.

Which is why I’ve decided to stop drenching my pillows with salty water, and crack on with this darn graphic novel. It’s only been ten year’s in the making, after all. As much as I enjoy dishing out training seminars to unenthusiastic wagon drivers for a living (spoiler: I enjoy it as much as getting booted in the shins by a ticked off mule), I figured it was time to try and turn my passion into a career. Artistic Ella’s back baby, and she’s ready to make a dazzling name for herself! I’m gonna complete Silicone Diamonds if it’s the last thing I do. Or maybe I’ll get bored and not do that. Not that I mean to sound like a quitter, it’s just early days, is all I’m saying. Who knows which way one’s drive will swing.

“Here we go, sweet”.

Sexy barista man smiles at me as he plonks the Biscoff pie and Latte next to my sketch pad. I catch the name Tyson printed across his work badge.

I bet his friends call him Tye.

Or maybe not. I’m just having a pointless ponder.

“Working on anything fun?” he asks, eyeballing my pad.

“Just a graphic novel,” I feel myself blush crimson. Showing strangers my fiction feels like showing them my grubby laundry.

“For real? I love graphic novels!”

Good lord, I’m glowing like a radioactive cinderblock now.

“Is it like an MCU sort of thing?” he continues.

“More of a dystopian cyberpunk get up,” I tell him, my heart skipping about the place like a jazzed up pug.

“Like Blade Runner?”

I nod, “there’s some Black Mirror vibes in there, too.”

I find myself relaxing a touch. He doesn’t seem bored. That glazed over look I’m all too familiar with from my work seminars hasn’t draped over his face yet. If anything, Tye seems into the words dribbling out of my trap. Though he might just be after sex or something. These days it’s hard to distinguish whether my strings are being pulled, or if I’m just paranoid. Shitty exes will do that for you.

“Customers are waiting, Tyson” calls a woman with bright green hair and enough piercings to pick up transmissions intended for SETI.

“When I get five, I’ll be over to take a peak if you don’t mind?” he points at my sketch pad as he skips off back behind the counter.

I nod in his direction, like an eager puppy aiming to please him. Despite the No Men rule I’ve put in place following recent developments, I can feel my brain temporarily lifting that embargo as he flashes that stupid wink in my direction yet again. I can feel that pathetic, needy part of my mind calling out, praying that this handsome prat of a barista will fall head over heels for me. Maybe he will be the one, my savour from this humdrum town I find myself living within. I came here today looking for empty calories to accompany my creative endeavours, yet I left with my soul mate in tow. Perhaps Tye and I will run off together, down to Camden town, where we’ll hire an outlandishly overpriced flat and spend our days doing artsy things in our underwear. Heck, maybe we’ll throw pants to the wind and walk about our new abode in the nude. We’ll potter around with it all on show, basking in the liberty of this artsy hub we’ve built for ourselves.

It’s the sort of fanciful notion that makes me feel all gooey and dizzy inside; for a few seconds, at least. It doesn’t take me too long to reason such fancies out of existence. Daydreaming about building lives with strangers isn’t healthy. How many more times must I school myself on this matter. All it takes is a cheeky smile or a passing compliment, and I’m picking out wedding dresses in my head. Just the other day, a chap in B&Q commented on my earrings, only for my mind to break out into a montage of us growing old together. Get it together, Ella! After all, Tye is just some random chap I’ve never met before today. Some would say he’s breaking his professional code of conduct by treating me like some girl he’s got the hots for at his local cocktail bar. If he’s attracted to me, he should be keeping that claptrap well and truly to himself, thank you very much. I’m a customer and he’s a barista. It’s his job to serve me lattes in exchange for cash, not fire winks my way and ask to geek out over my art. If I had any shred of self-respect, I’d let off a tut and tell him to mind his manners!

Does he even know I’m trans? Would he be flourishing me with winks and attention if he was privy to such a detail? The thought makes me feel a little icky and exposed. Not that I’m ashamed of who I am, I’ll have you know. I just always feel a little vulnerable when straight dudes expresses interest. Do they know what they are signing up for when they set their sights upon me? I mean sure, I’m no different to any other girl out and about in the world; except perhaps for the whole hullabaloo going on downstairs, if you catch my drift. I know it’s 2023 and all that, but I’m guessing a fair few straight lads still get a bit huffy over the notion of dating a girl with idiosyncratic parts, as it were.

I push all the anxiety and internalised ick to the back of my mind. Today isn’t about Tyson and whether or not he likes the concept of a lady D. It’s about me and my graphic novel, not sex and sexuality. I’ve been putting off working on this badboy for far too long. The last thing I need is yet another fella swooping into the picture to ruffling up my creative plans. I’ve delayed and faffed for far too long. Today is Ella’s day, thank you very much. I’m gonna fill my stomach with calorific junk, slurp caffeine until I’m as jittery as a DualShock controller, and scribble down more of neon-caked musings.

Flicking through my work manages to distract me from the Tyson-shaped neurosis, filling my brain with anxiety instead. I’ve no idea where to begin with Silicone Diamonds. This project, it’s just a great big heaping pile of stuff. Not that I think it’s terrible, or anything like that. As far as non-digital drafts go, I’m a far better drawer than I recall. I always thought the magic happened on Illustrator, yet this stuff’s as as tidy as a well-groomed kitten. Plus from a narrative standpoint, it looks alright. There’s drama and tension and what looks to be genuine plot progression.

Nah, the horror doesn’t come from the quality of the drawings, more so the scale of it all. Where am I at in this story? What was I working on when I last put this sketchpad down? It’s been so long since I cracked on with this project, I’ve no idea where I was. Which draft is this? Is it the one where Malcolm is the AI? Or has Malcolm become the human trapped inside the virtual realm? Has the grand purge happened yet? Or did I not get round to fleshing out that panel. It’s like trying to resume a sprawling RPG after rebuilding your life following a house fire. You really would like to crack on with obtaining the Giger Crystal from the screaming towers of never-wear, but you’ve just spent the last eight months trying to persuade Churchill Home Insurance to payout for your conservatory repairs.

I know none of you know what I’m on about right now. I’m just waffling random titbits about a graphic novel that’s about as vast in scope as the Burj Khalifa and as coherent as a room full of screaming toddlers. I’m not about pitching my vision right now, I’m just ranting in a panicked frenzy, hoping it will kickstart my brain into remembering where I am with all of this. For someone who’s just spent the past week getting excited about working on this project, I failed to carry out the important yet simple task of mapping out the actual details.

Suddenly, I’m feeling like a failure again. What was meant to be an afternoon of drafting and plot-fleshing is probably going to become a reading session. Am I really going to have to spend the rest of my day, flicking through tatty pages and soaking up a story I started writing back when I still donned facial hair? So much for Ella the storyteller. I may have to read a half-baked story penned by a younger and slightly less intelligent version of myself.

Maybe Tyson’s attention wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all. Perhaps his quizzical intrigue will motivate me to act out the story so far. I might get all confident on the fumes of his lust, prompting me to recite the plot thus far as though I were a Shakespearian scholar reciting her favourite lines from Hamlet. He’ll be my man-sized cattle prod. A few questions here and there will get the memory pumps going. Who knows, maybe it’ll all come back to me.

Oh gosh, now I’m thinking about Celine again. My mind’s casting back to my sofa. Heartbroken evenings thinking about Dean and that sexy new partner of his. Oh, I bet they are out there somewhere right now, holding hands and giggling like a pair of buffoons. Or maybe they are all snuggled up on the sofa with Minty. I bet she’s purring away, totally content with her shiny new mum. Stupid, sexy, horrible fools they are (not Minty, she’s a delight. An not sexy, because that would be weird). My heart sinks into my tummy. Each beat sends acid pulsing through my guts and up my oesophagus.

I take a swig of my Latte, washing down the bad vibes and metaphorical acid. What did I say about men and today? Like alcohol and politics, the two should never intertwine. Why my brain is trying to play silly beggars with me at a time like this is both unexpected and infuriating. All I want to do is focus on me. Is that so much to ask for? I mean sure, some may argue that it’s fundamentally egocentric and potentially selfish of me to do such a thing, but I’m trying to recover from an emotional breakdown, for heaven’s sake. Let me have a bit of time to myself, then I’ll get back to panicking about famine and the economy and whatever else is on the non-Ella agenda.

I take a deep breath. I feel the air glide down my throat. I’m in the present, basking in the here and now. I’m like one of them YouTubers in my mindfulness playlist. The past is gone, the future doesn’t exits. All I need is some incense candles, a bundle of mala beads, and I’m practically Mahatma Gandhi.

Now I remember, Malcolm is the AI in the newest draft. Of course he is. I changed it after I realised making him another human was boring. I recall concluding it would be more interesting if he thinks he’s human for the first 40 pages or so, only for it to be revealed that he’s just another bot; the very thing he has learned to despise over the course of this fable. Also, he isn’t called Malcolm anymore. It’s Zac now. Much more cyberpunk. The rush of air into my lungs has worked its charms. Probably a placebo, no doubt. I don’t think meditation is as simple as swallowing a spot of air. Whatever the root cause of my memory pang, it’s worked a charm. I can see where I’ve left off. Our residents are still fighting their way through Paradise Peak. They are cut off from the physical world; their consciouses downloaded into a digital realm intended to protect them from the apocalypse. Zac, formally known as Malcolm, is trying to lead a group of humans through a nightclub packed with AIs who resent them. The task is to keep them blended in with their artificial peers, saving them from torture and murder. Except Zac is having a spot of a breakdown. He thought he was a human, until now. He’s just discovered his memories aren’t his own, but a human who he fused with during the great download. It’s all dramatic stuff. It’ll look grand when it’s finally in print.

I yank out my pens and start scribbling away. The world of Paradose Peak floods back into my mind. I’m there again, dancing in a universe of my own making. It may be a grim and gritty landscape, but it’s mine nonetheless. I’m down in the trenches with Zac and Cosmo and Cynthia. I’m helping them assimilate amidst a pit of bitter AIs with a thirst for flesh. I’m home again, content in a world far away from infidelity, eager baristas and tear sodden pillows.

The minutes turn into hours. Time whizzes on by as quick as the folks dashing in for their breaktime cappuccinos.  By  the time I’m ready for my next drink and desert, I notice Tyson is no longer brewing away behind the counter. Some short, shy fella with a less kept haircut is manning the thought. Perhaps my graphic novel companion clock out whilst I was drawing away. Maybe he’s outside, catching some fresh air on his scheduled break. Heck, maybe he never existed in the first place. I’m not trying to suggest I’ve cracked a psychological fuse, or anything like that, but the emotional strain of the last few years has sure as heck pushed my cognitive capabilities to their limit. For all I know, sexy, eager Tyson was a figment of my imagination; a ghost intended to make me feel a little less rough for the way Dean treated me.

I order myself a green tea, return to my den in the corner, and proceed to beaver away on my passion peace. There’s a time and a place to ponder the credibility of Tyson’s existence, but now isn’t the time.

The clock keeps on ticking away. So much so, the daylight is starting to shift along with it. It’s getting dark outdoors. The September evenings are kicking in, taking away the extended sunlight we’ve been blessed with since June time. My tummy starts to prod me, suggesting we go in search for something a little less sugary for dinner. I glance down at my daily work. Zac’s got into a confrontation with some skinhead at the bar. He’s a right proper bigot. Hates flesh more than his flesh-hating counterparts. He’s a right nasty entity. Zac hates him. Cosmo and Cynthia do too, for that matter. He sports a set of mechanical arachnid limbs spiralling out from his spine. He’s a proper unsavoury character. I might make him the villain of this volume. I’m inspired, inspired enough to head on back here tomorrow and draw some more.

Who knows, perhaps Tyson will be about again.

Not that it matters, of course. Just curious whether he really does wanna take a glance at my handy work.

I set off into the cloudy, September evening. I’m not suggesting this day has been a crossroads for me. I didn’t enter miserable and exit enlightened. I’m still a bit grim on the innards. Dean’s betrayal and subsequent departure has left a right old stain on the story of my life. I imagine it will take a while to wash that sucker out. Even so, it’s been a better day than the bundle that came before it. As cathartic as the love ballads crying sessions were for my soul, it’s a tidy change of pace to do something creative once in a while.

Who knows, maybe this is the start of a grand new chapter. I might look back on this day in ten years time from my cushy mansion, chuckling to myself about those humble origins from which I came. This could be day one of my grand quest toward success.

Or maybe I’ll get tired of the creativity and decide the humdrum day job is enough to ferry me through existence. I know that might not sound ideal, but it works for most.

We’ll see where my path takes me.