Walking as fast as I possibly can, I manage to make the train to Witton station with no more hassle than rendering myself slightly out of breath. Embarrassed at my apparent lack of athleticism, I pretend to be fine in the stuffy air of the second train for today. I've done this journey before, the last being in February during the Arnold Clark Cup. The penultimate was to visit Scarlett's parents – people I avoided when I strayed from the tournament a few months ago.

I get to the close she grew up in just past midday. It takes me an additional five minutes to navigate through the identical houses, each with neatly trimmed patches of grass at the front and many with England flags still decorating the front window, remnants from supporting their country through the World Cup.

Everyone here knew Scarlett, because a teenage version of her would knock on their doors every few weeks with the offer of a £5 car wash. They'd ask her what she was after now, and the answer would always be the same: a new pair of football boots. Scarlett was able to build a house with the amount of boots she accumulated over the years. She never threw them away, despite my insistence that they were taking up way too much space, and she could lay them out chronologically and tell stories about the goals she'd scored in each pair. Those boots were sent back to Birmingham in a cardboard box the day I moved to Barcelona.

The doorbell has changed since I last pressed it, but the sound is still the same. The two-minute laziness of her father, Tony, who has always been adamant about building suspense, still exists. His face does not know what to do when he sees me.

Sheepishly, I shift my weight from foot to foot. "Did Nicola not tell you that I was coming?"

"No, love, she didn't." He opens the door wider, stepping aside. "Come in, of course. Mind you don't get the new carpet dirty with your shoes. I see Barça's paying you well."

"Sponsors," I clarify, though he is not wrong. I toe off the new Dunks that Nike sent to me. I forgot to wear them at the World Cup, instead choosing to live a life of sliders and fluffy socks. "The carpet is nice."

"Nicola wanted a change." His words echo grief. There is a new photo of Scarlett hanging up in the hallway, joining the frames containing glimpses into her childhood. This one is from the Euros. Her medal is in a glass case on a side table beneath it.

He gestures to the living room, the TV playing highlights of Aston Villa's most recent match. I decline the offer of tea, choosing to have some water. "Have a cheeky nibble of some of Nic's cake," Tony says, bringing me a plate and a fork. "I know you have abs to keep and what-not, but try it."

Lemon drizzle was Scarlett's favourite type of cake. I pretend that it does not sour in my mouth.

We sit in silence while we wait for Nicola – he says that she has just 'popped to Tesco'. All this time in Spain made me forget how amusing English people are.

"Glad to have European football?" I ask as I discover that this channel is only for Villans, as they are called.

"Whole city was buzzing," he replies, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Soon enough, just after he has cracked open a can of beer, a shrill voice rings through the house. "What do you think you're doing?" Nicola calls out, smelling the drink from the door as she walks in with two shopping bags overflowing with food. Tony is quick to place his feet back on the floor. "Oh!" she squeals in surprise when she sees me, eyes briefly narrowing at her husband as she sets the bags down, moving swiftly to scoop me up in a hug.

When someone you love dies, people start hugging you a lot more.

"Tony, why didn't you ring me? You've been boring Fleur this whole time, making her watch men roll around on the ground."

"I thought Jack Grealish left Villa?" I joke.

Tony laughs heartily, more than happy to join in on the hatred for his foul play now that it is no longer benefitting the team he supports. "Villa to City. Copying Scarlett, ain't he?" We all power through the beat of silence. "Next thing you know, he's in a Chelsea shirt and we're sending him packing back to Stamford Bridge. Can't have him at City – it's no fun if we can't beat him." It's then that I notice the Grealish shirt is no longer displayed on the living room wall above the television, and that it has been replaced with the jersey they lifted at the Arnold Clark Cup. The one that, upon seeing, crumbled my existence and rendered me in tears, cradled in my sister's arms.

"Right," Nicola claps her hands together, "Fleur, have you had something to drink? Are you hungry? We've got some – ah, I see Tony's had no shame cutting into the cake."

"I hope you didn't make it for me," I tell her earnestly. I suggested we meet at a café, but she was insistent that I come to the house.

"No, no, it was no trouble. I make them weekly. As a way to... Well, there was never any around while she was still with us."

"Because she'd eat it all," Tony guffaws, feet back on the table despite the glare his wife sends him. He pats his bulging stomach with a grin. "It's alright, though. I've got it covered."

After Nicola has fussed in the kitchen for a while, she settles in the armchair adjacent to the sofa Tony and I have become very comfortable on. I know that the spot I'm sitting in is Scarlett's – the one she'd wrestle her brother for because it had the best view of the television – and it has been left empty up until now. They don't say anything, so I don't move.

I stare at the screen, trying to ignore the new photographs and more proudly displayed achievement. It is their desperate attempt to remember her positively. I wonder if the pictures make them feel as sick as they make me do. It is like there is a gaping hole in my chest, and someone cannot decide whether they want to pinch it shut or rip it wider.

It's Tony who breaks the silence, clearing his throat with a guttural smoker's cough. He quit a few years ago, persuaded by Scarlett. "So to what do we owe the pleasure, Miss de Voss?" he questions with an interesting attempt at a posher accent. "Or is it business?"

"Business, bab," Nicola tells him.

I swallow, but they will think the cold-heartedness I'm about to display is simply a cultural difference. It is an advantage; it will make things easier.

My hand, trembling, slides into the pocket of my jeans, and I pull out the ring. They watch me lay it flat in my palm, both of them leaning forwards to inspect it closer. It is just as shiny as it was when I found out, but when I look at it now, I do not feel the need to question my future. There is, when I stare at the silver band, a face behind me, who promises that she will be there in the years to come. I know that I should not keep the ring.

"Who knew she'd have such a good eye," Nicola tries valiantly, though her voice is choked back with tears. "Put it on, Fleur. I want to see how it would've looked."

I recoil from the hand she reaches out to me in alarm, and the ring drops onto the carpet.

"I don't think it's a–"

"Please?" Nicola whispers.

The speech, of which I have memorised, echoes in my mind. She had obviously not told her parents what she was going to do, and it comes as a surprise to them but I don't think it should. Maybe what they are more caught off guard by is the fact that I am here, gulping as I pluck the ring from the floor, and sliding it onto my finger as Nicola tries to keep herself afloat.

Despite the band being made of cool metal, it burns my finger. It is not meant to sit there. The life and soul of it died with her, as did the unasked question, and I really don't know what to do as Nicola breaks down in front of me. I turn to Tony, eyes wide and begging for help, but he has chosen to stare at the wall, transfixed by the name on the back of the shirt.

Although the house seemed to be standing strong when I walked in, I realise now that the foundations have been destroyed.

The carpet is one that Scarlett would not have walked on, and the new pictures hanging up remain because she is not there to tell them how embarrassing they are. There are a pair of football boots on the shoe rack in the hallway and a kitbag by the door. It's like they have decided she has simply left for school, and will be returning later.

Later, whenever that is, will never come for the Powell family, and it is evident in the way Nicola's hands tremble. She presses her shaking palms into her lap and closes her mouth so that her sobs will not escape, but the wheeze of her grief is loud enough for all of us to hear.

I know that, if I were to scale the stairs, that I would find her room; the second door on the left. Scarlett was not the tidiest of people. I wonder if they keep her mess, clinically preserved as though she will one day return and eventually clean it.

I wince as the ring cuts into my flesh, though it fits me perfectly. "I'm sorry," I say, voice weaker than I expected it to be. The metal clangs on the coffee table as I drop it once more, no longer capable of having it in my possession. "I'm so sorry. I can't keep it. I don't want it."

My breath catches in my throat, and tears well up in my eyes.

"I can't keep it," I repeat, the words falling from my lips into the ears of her parents who don't want to hear it. My voice quivers as I stare at the ring on the coffee table, its place there a heavy reminder of who we have lost.

The room is filled with an eerie silence, broken only by the strained sobs of her mother. She cries as though she died with her.

Tony continues to be fixated on the wall, seemingly lost in his own worlds. Perhaps it is a world where Scarlett is alive. The name on the back of the shirt anchors his grief, but causes him to sink, too.

I take a deep breath – successfully this time – but my own tears threaten to spill over. This is not how I imagined this visit, nor is it how I wanted it to go. I glance around the room, my eyes landing on the new pictures, the image of the football boots in the hallway prevalent as I silently try to hold up the Powell household. When I stand, with aching legs, catching the hint of lemons lingering in the air, I leave a space that should not have been filled by me. It's all wrong.

Nicola's grief is palpable: a heavy cloud that hangs in the air. Her gasping sobs resonate, and the music of the adverts flicking away on the TV all seem to play in a minor key. The room is filled with a chorus of pain.

I want to reach out to her, to hold her, to comfort her, but I am paralysed. Trapped between the ring on the coffee table, the seat I should not have sat in, and the ghoulish figure I imagine before me – the culprit, the evil that could pluck such a beautiful person from the Earth with no remorse.

I can't keep it. The thought reverberates in my mind like some haunting refrain. I can't bear to carry this tangible loss. Not when I can see her when I close my eyes, or hear her in my laughter. Not when there is Alexia, whose resemblance is only that she sets my heart aflame in a more intense manner.

With a final, determined breath, I reach for the ring once more, the tremor in my fingers stilling as I pick it up. It is colder now, devoid of the guilt born into it. I look at Nicola, her red, swollen eyes begging me to keep it, but I know that it is not right.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper again, the words hitching in my throat as I slip the ring back into my pocket. The weight in my heart is unbearable.

This room, this house, is a testament to loss. The absence of Scarlett, of their beloved daughter, is horrifyingly obvious.

I walk towards the door into the hallway, stopping before I cross the threshold. I cast one last glance around the room, my heart heavy with sorrow. "I can't keep it," I say once more, my voice steady now. I turn to leave, squeezing my eyes shut as I hear Tony rushing over to his wife, just as helpless as I am.

I place the ring inside the left boot on the shoe rack, and walk out of the house.

The next day, I go to the storage facility and sort through the boxes. Ruthless in my decision-making, I divide the items between Sam, who has requested some of the clothes, her friend group (which Leah has been entrusted to distribute), and the tip. There are no tears involved until I drive back to Richmond, only going to collect my luggage before inconveniencing Leah for a while.

She's adamant I stay, and I am not planning to fly to Barcelona just to hop on a plane to Monaco soon to go to the UEFA Player of the Year awards. The nominations came through today. Alexia says I will win.

When I arrive in St. Albans, emotionally exhausted and ready to tuck into the lasagna Leah's mother made her a few days ago, I am met with my sister's girlfriend. She seems to have prepared a questionnaire for me; half about what Jaimie likes in a house, half about my own developing relationship. Totally bored by her evening activities, I slink upstairs to the guest room, diving into the clean sheets, ready to sleep for the entirety of tomorrow.

Esmee shoots me a message about the tour to Mexico, which I am obviously not going on, and then tells me that her belongings are in Ingrid's apartment for the meantime. She will be moving in, but has been staying with the Norwegian (a less chaotic person than her girlfriend, and someone who is far more comfortable with speaking English) in the few days she has been in Barcelona, seeing as I am not there. She's happy so far, and says she is excited to go to Mexico. Esmee's youth is a faint reminder of Talia, though she is far more out of her depth than her.

Wondering how she is doing, I switch apps, ready to text her to see how she is doing. However, side-tracked by the knowledge of the Rubiales drama going on right now, I end up scrolling through the news app before I can even start a message. There, buried between Jenni Hermoso, Luis Rubiales, and Jorge Vilda, is an article that makes my phone slip from my grasp.

21-YEAR-OLD WORLD CUP WINNER, TALIA SEGURA, BANNED FROM PLAYING IN HOME COUNTRY, SPAIN, UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

notes: 

hi! this fic is going to go on hold again while i catch never leave again up -- otherwise the entire plot of never leave again will be ruined x

scarlett being brummie is by far my favourite character choice i've ever made tbh 

anyway

thanks for reading! i cried writing this one lol