Thank you so much to everyone who commented on the previous chapters, I really appreciate it. This is kind of ambling forward, not really sure if I have much direction yet, but bear with me, I'm sure there's a plot in here somewhere.

...

It's funny, you think, standing in the kitchen doorway some days later, how comfortable you are being on the outside looking in, and you wonder when it was that you came to be a stranger in your own house. It's not a new feeling, you realise, as you watch your family carrying out their morning ritual - your mum and Katie are making coffee and toast respectively, dancing around one another with their movements choreographed - in some ways you have always felt like this.

Your dad is trying unsuccessfully to help James tie his school tie, and Katie turns to watch and laughs. It's a picture perfect little family, much to your surprise, and you can see no place for yourself in it. You are musing on that thought when your mother looks up, her eyes going steely when she sees you, her smile stiff.

"Good morning, Emily," she says to you with a formality that has no place in her relationship with Katie, and you wonder, now more than ever, if you are truly strangers to one another. You mumble a response and shuffle to the coffee pot, then stare quietly into your cup as they bustle about you.

"Any plans for the day, love?" your Dad asks.

"Like a job hunt," Katie suggests derisively.

"No," you sigh, standing to exit the kitchen, "I'm going for a walk."

...

When you trace it all back, you find it impossible to pinpoint where it all went so wrong - you and your mum; you and Katie. You wonder if it all happened in those first six minutes, the ones in which Katie was out greeting the world and you were yet to enter it. Your mum is always so quick to remind you that you are the youngest twin - that you are the introvert, the sensitive one. The one who was speeding down a dangerous path and who could never make the right decisions for herself. The one who kept secrets and told lies.

And your mum has good instincts about people, that's the worst part. It simultaneously stings that she doesn't know you at all, and fills you with dread that one day, she will actually be proven right. You remember the day of that tragic barbeque, when Naomi had shouted, for all the world to hear, the admission of what she had done. The blow of the public declaration, the worst one – that a girl had died because of her – was nothing compared to knowing that your mother knew the truth. That your mum had been right all along.

And it makes you wonder – you've wondered every day since selling your moped and buying your ticket out of here – if it was all your fault; if there was a point, in all of that, where you could have just said stop.

There was really nothing you could have done, though. So much back then was so far out of your control that you couldn't even tell if it was you that was spiralling down, or if everything was crashing down around you.

...

You're broken out of your reverie when you become aware of a familiar figure taking a seat beside you, and it goes part way to confirming your suspicion that if you sit on the same park bench long enough, you will see the whole world pass you by.

"You could have at least stayed for the funeral," is how she greets you, and you're not taken aback, not really. You never would have expected pleasantries and a hug, not from Effy.

"I know," you answer with a bowed head, "and I'm sorry."

"There's no need," she replies, "it's water under the bridge."

You catch her eye briefly, before turning away again, taking a long drag from your fag, "Is it?"

She nods soberly, "Some things just need to be."

You'd forgotten, in the time you'd been away, just how sage Effy can be, how she can cut you down to size with the simplest of statements. She'd lost the plot not long before you went away, but had been slowly improving. She was getting back on track when things took a turn and got so much worse.

"I wasn't a very good friend to you," you admit quietly, after a long pause.

"You had other things going on," she offers, turning to face you, plucking the cigarette from your fingers.

"That doesn't make it better."

"No," she admits, "but I had people around me. I had Panda and Katie," she pauses then, "I had Naomi."

You can feel her scrutinising your profile, those blue eyes always searching, seeking out little cracks that she can weasel through to get to the rotten core of things. You wonder what it is she finds there, and you wonder what she brings back with her. Perhaps, you think, this is Effy's sickness – morbid fascination.

When you don't respond, she continues, "And anyway, what could you have done?"

Of course you wish it was that simple, you really do. She's right, really - you were stuck in your own mess, and didn't really have a place in hers. You've wasted so much time trying to figure out what you could have done differently, how things could have turned out better, for everyone, only to realise that ultimately there was just too much that was out of your hands.

You shrug off the question, and glance sideways at her, "How are you now?"

"Back on the rails, you could say," she answers matter-of-factly, her tone light.

You nod, "I'm pleased to hear it."

And again you feel those eyes boring into you, "Are you?"

You look at her then, solemnly, wearily, and shake your head, "I've just been away."

"And now you're back." It's a statement, not a question, but you respond all the same.

"Yes."

She just nods, and finally faces away from you, "I see."

There is silence then between you, and it hangs heavily. You have come to learn with Effy, that there is always more that she's not saying.

Finally, though, it is Effy who breaks the silence, "She's not with me, you know."

You look at her, perplexed, "Who?"

"Naomi."

"Why would she be with you?"

Effy smiles easily, as she explains, "We're flatmates in London, I thought you knew."

You shake your head, "I don't know anything, really."

"She hasn't been home in a while," she adds, and at this you simply nod as she continues. "Said she might visit her mum next month, during reading week."

It's strange to hear Effy volunteer so much information unbidden, and you wonder vaguely what she's asking from you in return. Finally, she asks a direct question, "You're really not going to ask about her?"

"No," you answer simply, and you can feel her waiting for you to continue, so you elaborate. "It's done Effy, it's over. We've hurt each other too much."

"So you admit that you hurt her, then?"

Your gaze turns sceptical, "Do you have an opinion?"

"I'm not offering one."

"You are though, aren't you?" you contest gently, and she smiles her serene, acerbic smile. "You think both parties were at fault."

"Aren't they always?

You exhale roughly though your nose and let your head fall forward in resignation. "Yeah, I suppose they are."

Silence falls on you both yet again, and you are left swimming in your own head.

"How long are you in town?" you finally ask, placing another cigarette between your lips.

"Until Sunday," she answers, extending her hand for the fag you're offering, "to see mum and have the quarterly review at the loony bin." Her smile is ironic, "The usual shit."

You laugh, "Will I see you before you head back?"

"I hope so," she says earnestly, like she means it.

There is something in her expression that warms you, and the sensation reminds you of what it feels like to be in the company of people who just know you.

"Yeah," you smile sadly, realising that Effy may just be the only person left who could really make that claim, "me too."