Notes on (WIP): I no longer use this blog just to showcase finished pieces like a typical blog. I don’t draft posts anymore—I just hit publish and work on them gradually, refining as I go. That means entries like the Unlived Lives series are constantly evolving.And somehow, it feels liberating. This process helps me grow without getting stuck in perfectionism. Besides, this blog has never truly felt public to me—it’s more like a private backyard.
A car tore through the street, its engine splitting the midday hush.
‘This time of day? Of course.’ she muttered from the porch, frowning at the intrusion.
A car tore through the street, its engine splitting the midday hush.
The house had been standing for nearly 40 years, its German-engineered windows boasting impressive sound insulation, reducing noise by up to 50 dB. Compared to when she first moved in, a time when she often worried about the effects of constantly using earplugs, she now felt a quiet sense of pride in finally being able to decide (and afford!) to replace the old windows.
They had gone back and forth on the windows, just as they had about selling the house. Even after the mortgage was paid, they never followed through—perhaps out of habit or out of something neither of them could quite name. Three decades in, nothing much had changed inside—no interior design theme was ever implemented. Their home remained untouched, with its built-in furniture still standing as it had since the day they moved in.
‘We don’t need it,’ her husband said. Yeah, she agreed when the idea of buying a sofa randomly came up.
They truly never felt the need. Guests were rare, almost nonexistent. The seating they had—a small dining set with two chairs and a long, multi-purpose bench that doubled as storage—always felt sufficient.
The heat that day was relentless, nudging her toward her usual routine—watering the plants, again. Now squinting against the harsh sunlight, she spotted Shiro, the stray cat that roamed their complex, making its way toward the house.
Before heading back in, she made a mental note: tomorrow, the same. Also, a little extra cat food needed to be left, just in case.
–
The name Chas had been her suggestion, borrowed from a favorite film character. It had started as a passing thought, nothing more, yet somehow, it had settled, unchallenged. She had initially resisted. It wasn’t her place. She wasn’t technically family. And yet, when she had spoken the name aloud, they had simply accepted it, as if it had always belonged.
Years ago, an accident had taken her dearest friend, and with it, the shape of everything she had known. She had taken in the young man—not in the legal sense, but in all the ways that mattered. A quiet tether had formed between them, invisible yet unshakable, linking their lives in ways neither of them had ever expected.
A soft creak echoed through the room as she shifted slightly, her eyes tracing the familiar lines of the ceiling. Afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting long, dappled patterns across the floor. Faintly, she could hear sounds from upstairs—probably her husband watching YouTube. Her gaze drifted, unfocused. The memory came gently, as if it had been waiting just beneath the surface. The weight of Chas in her arms—small, impossibly light. How surreal it had been. How surreal it still was.
‘God,’ she whispered, barely audible. A tightness pressed against her throat, familiar and unwelcome. Then, a soft chime.
The phone screen glowed in the dimming light. Chas had replied.
‘Don’t bring anything for Opa. You know how picky he is, and we’ll just end up being scolded for wasting money,’ she typed, her fingers hovering over the screen before adding an upside-down smiley at the end. (Updated 25/02/2025)
to be continued
The “Unlived Lives” series represent short fiction of the roles that might have been destined for me in an alternate dimension, purposes I believe were meant to be mine but remained unfulfilled in the present life.
Robin had undergone three relocations in as many years. Her first move occurred after marrying Matthew, and together, they rented a splendid house in an upscale neighborhood, courtesy of Matthew’s substantial income. After their separation, Robin had depleted her resources due to the expenses of the divorce process, and one of her savings was tied up during the proceedings. Robin found solace in sharing a flat with a delightful queer actor, where their friendship played a significant role in Robin’s mental healing during the challenging divorce process.
Initially, Robin had intended to continue living in the flat, cherishing the support and companionship her roommate provided. However, due to a sensitive case she was handling, she hesitated to expose her work-related risks to her roommate, suspecting she might be under surveillance. Reluctantly, she made the decision to find a new place, eventually leading her to her current apartment.
Despite her efforts to settle in, Robin struggled to feel at home. Adapting to new environments always made her anxious and uneasy. This discomfort was exacerbated by living alone for the first time in a long while, the last instance being during her college years in a dormitory. She longed for a sense of peace and freedom, knowing it might take some time to achieve. The ongoing construction in the building next door added to her distress. Trees had been relocated, leaving the area around her building looking more barren and significantly dustier than usual.
The construction next to her apartment was bothersome, especially since some trees had to be relocated, further contributing to the barren appearance of the surroundings. The ongoing dustiness was also a nuisance, prompting Robin to consider calling Mrs. Tawney, her cleaning lady. The night before, Mrs. Tawney had messaged Robin, inquiring if she needed cleaning services this week, as she would be out of town over the weekend, offering assistance just in case Robin required it.
“This place totally feels like a college guy’s dorm, Robs,” said her older brother when he visited one day., chuckling at the familiar atmosphere.
With only two more nights in her surveillance schedule for the week, Robin anticipated having enough energy to tackle her biweekly apartment cleaning routine.
“I can manage it on my own this week, Mrs. Tawney. Thanks for checking. See you in a few weeks,” she typed into the chat.
After reviewing her case notes and photographs, Robin decided to take a short break and enjoy the biscuits and coffee she had prepared a few hours ago, quickly glancing at the time on her phone screen.
Tsk.
She should have left for the museum ten minutes ago.
—
Robin stood in the dimly lit hall of the museum’s art stockroom, gazing at the stack of artworks that seemed to be resting in the subdued space after such a long period of needing to dazzle visitors, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging. She remembered when her detective partner, Cormoran Strike, first left this case file on her desk. She knew he had taken on the case without much consideration or further consultation with the team, even though it was in the midst of a pile of cases being handled by the agency, because he knew Robin would be interested in this case.
Their client is a family conglomerate oil and gas businessman who has suspicions that there is an art forgery network operating under the guise of restoration in several museums where he acts as a patron. He also suspects that there may have been an exchange of counterfeit artworks within the national museum’s collection as a result of this forgery. Robin has been busy reconnecting with old contacts in the art world for consultations and to learn more about art dealers in London. One of them is a former college friend who has become a curator and art researcher she greatly admires. Although initially confused and disbelieving when he found out that Robin is now a private detective, he wasn’t too surprised.
‘I suppose you don’t exactly fit the typical image of an art school graduate.’ he remarked.
True, Robin thought to herself. Her style in school was much duller compared to her fellow art students on campus, unlike most others. Her social circle was different too. Despite being a promising student, she constantly believed she lacked the actual talent of her artsy friends, preferring to remain a tourist in the art world. In her view, it was always more enjoyable that way.
After consulting with her curator friend, Robin discovered several intriguing facts about The Brontë Museum, one of the museum networks being investigated by the agency. From the stockroom, she walked towards one of the corridors to make a phone call to one of the contractors to follow up on a few matters. Faint sounds of visitors could be heard on the ground floor, where the main exhibition room was located. Tomorrow being the Summer Bank Holiday, it was understandable that the museum was bustling with visitors, especially considering the weather wasn’t as gloomy as it had been yesterday.
Robin decided to visit the office on the top floor. The workspace was located in the museum’s most captivating corner, bathed in natural light and offering a lovely view of the street. She could see some staff members preparing for next month’s exhibition. One of the interns she spoke to was a product design graduate who had been previously interviewed by Strike. She was a tall woman with an athletic physique and a strikingly attractive face. Robin wondered whether she was also a model alongside her work at the museum, then wondered whether wondering this was offensive.
‘I thought he came across as rude from the articles I read in the tabloids, but he’s surprisingly charming, isn’t he?’ she said, clearly impressed.
Robin responded with a smile, choosing to address the topic gracefully.
Despite her efforts to push aside her thoughts and feelings lately, especially after the incident at the Ritz, she knew the boundaries. Yet, in quiet moments, when she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth, her heart fluttered with an emotion she was both afraid to confront and unable to deny. Of course, she didn’t know what the consequences would be this time.
—
Robin decided to ask Ryan to pick her up at the office. She was happy as she arrived at Denmark Street with a positive feeling about the progress of her case. She made her way to the inner office, where Strike was waiting.
‘Fancy updating me before you leave?’ said Strike, checking his watch.
He knew Robin was due to take some long-overdue leave today.
‘Unless you need to get going?’
‘No, I’m waiting for Ryan,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve got time.’
Strike closed the door.
‘Are you alright?’ Robin asked.
‘What?’ said Strike, though he’d heard her. ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
Strike and Robin had once before sat in this office, after dark and full of whisky, and he’d come dangerously close to crossing the line between friend and lover. He’d felt then the fatalistic daring of the trapeze artist, preparing to swing out into the spotlight with only black air beneath him, and he felt the same now. This time, he was going to tell her that he fell in love with her.
—
Four months later.
The old Land Rover rumbled along the deserted snow-covered road, its headlights cutting through the winter darkness. Inside, Robin sat bundled up, a hood pulled over her head to shield against the cold. She clutched a thermos of hot tea and resisted the temptation to devour the contents of the biscuit box in the driver’s seat. She was fully immersed in her undercover role for the case.
As she sipped her tea, a soft smile played on her lips as she gazed at the distant silhouette approaching her vehicle. The figure walked purposefully through the snow, heading towards Robin’s Land Rover.
He looks a few stones lighter. But he seems healthy, which is good. Robin thought.
The door creaked open.
“Hi,” Strike greeted, a smile lighting up his face.
“Hi,” responded Robin, mirroring his smile. “Want some biscuits?”
Smiling, Strike chuckled, “Give me a hug first.”
The “Unlived Lives” series represent short fiction of the roles that might have been destined for me in an alternate dimension, purposes I believe were meant to be mine but remained unfulfilled in the present life.
www.gibbesmuseum.org, www.travellemming.com, www.commons.wikimedia.org. All images undergo editing processes.
Notes on Character Names: Robin Ellacott and Cormoran Strike are characters crafted by the British author Robert Galbraith, a pseudonym employed by J.K. Rowling. All rights reserved. And also, the conversation in part three is heavily extracted from the last chapter of Book 7, The Running Grave. 🙂
It was the late 2000s, long before the term ‘curation’ became banal across various fields and scenes. With two of her closest friends, she uncovered their shared passion for art curation, each having nurtured their curatorial skills independently. They decided to merge their talents and create a collective, a teenage curatorial powerhouse.
Pooling their resources, they secured a charming space below a small canteen shop in the suburbs for a modest amount. Well, it was actually more because they received financial assistance from one of their friend’s parents who, for some reason, agreed when they presented a three-page proposal at that time. Their mission was simple yet profound: they aimed to curate thought-provoking exhibitions that showcased the works of local teen artists struggling to find their voice in the tumultuous art world. Within the nurturing embrace of their gallery, these artists found solace and support. The space slowly became a hub for art enthusiasts seeking the next big thing.
In 2009, during her postgraduate years, she stumbled upon a remarkable opportunity. A visionary developer who was transforming an old warehouse into a cutting-edge collaborative art space approached her. They wanted her to curate and oversee the artistic direction of this venture, envisioning a space akin to an artistic haven for the creative minds of the city—an early glimpse of what would later inspire similar initiatives like the 19th century’s version of “yadda for yadda’s sake”. At this time, all the fears she once imagined about writing a curatorial piece and releasing it to the public for multiple interpretations turned out not to be as dreadful as she had thought. It still made her anxious, but it was manageable.
–
Today, she’s a seasoned curator, renowned for her obsession with avant-garde sound art. But she keep found herself pondering why an abundance of conventional and utterly boring pieces had somehow managed to sneak into her way.
Standing in front of the open refrigerator, she stared at her phone screen. Since last night, she had been trying to compose a reply to her designer. She was always like this, overthinking the message she would send. Dozens of drafts piled up in her notes. Some were sent, some were not. Some she revisited to understand what was on her mind in the past. Hereditary, she believed. Her late father loved to write. Most of them are poems for her mother to be broadcasted on his friend’s session at a local radio station. One of her main childhood memories was listening to cassette recordings of her father’s radio broadcasts. (And ruin it). She thought he would also obsess over every word before it was aired.
Funnily enough, on various occasions, when discussing family, she always mentioned that her interest in art was greatly influenced by her late uncle, a renowned painter with a big name in a distant city. Of course, it was a lie. Stories about her parents were always a sensitive topic for her. She always steered far away from that subject.
–
Taking a glass filled with leftover chocolate ice cream, she sighed as she reread the reply she had prepared. Why am I so heavily invested in this, she thought. It’s just a choice of font for the exhibition catalog. No one will probably notice. But she can’t help it. It matters to her.
She often found herself deeply engrossed in preparing things like this. Sometimes, she couldn’t care less about the artworks. But the catalog, the invitation, the sound system, the poster, the meals, the schedule filled her mind. Despite what she often heard from her dealer colleagues when casually arguing, she wanted visitors to appreciate these details.
She felt a nudge at her feet. Alpen, her grey tabby cat, seemed very interested in the glass in her hand. As if on reflex, she put the glass down, placed her phone haphazardly on the sofa, and lifted Alpen onto her lap. Alpen seemed to know what would happen next. A cuddle attack from her human, and a few sniffs between her eyes and cheeks as if she was in a hurry to inhale oxygen.
Ignoring the draft reply she had composed earlier, she continued scrolling through her phone. She could hear the sounds of construction in the distance. The housing complex where she lived wasn’t particularly large. You could practically hear the neighbors across the street if their children were having a fight at home. But she preferred it here to her previous place. One reason might be the white bougainvillea trees in front of her neighbors’ houses. From a distance, they looked similar to her favorite baby’s breath flowers. Hm, baby’s breath, she now had a new idea for a centerpiece arrangement on the gallery’s front desk for next week.
34 likes, 2 new chats popped up in notifications. She could see that one of the names that popped up was his.
A few years earlier, she found herself entangled in a whirlwind relationship with a local artist. At first, it was filled with shared passion for art. His inflated sense of self-importance and inability to accept criticism began to overshadow their once-charming connection. It mirrored the same arrogance and egoism she had encountered in many other artists she had worked with. That was the last time she wanted to have a romantic relationship with anyone from the art world.
–
Friday, the opening night.
The chat reply had been sent. The font had been chosen. The flower arrangement had been changed. The rundown had been adjusted. All the guests seemed to be enjoying the evening. The gallery spaces were filled with stylish people. In the restroom, she crossed paths with a group of art students from her alma mater who were serving as ushers. They looked gorgeous in their chosen uniforms, she thought.
In these past two hours, she had already checked the home’s pet camera three times. After engaging in a fanciful conversation with her cats at home, she approached her favorite young art collector in town who was in conversation with the artist exhibiting solo tonight.
Time passed. She could hear the cleaning staff tidying up wine glasses and cake plates. One of them caught her eye, and they exchanged smiles. She returned her attention to her conversation partner. As they engaged in discussions about art, life, and dreams, the curator and the artist consistently uncovered shared yet uninspired passions and concealed secrets. Amid this exchange of ideas and emotions, her own art remained a silent masterpiece—a complex narrative of a soul bound by destiny, yet hindered by the haunting echoes of unspoken desires. Deep down, she still grappled with insecurities from her early art school days.
She longed for a world where unpredictability reigned, and where avant-garde art was as normal as breakfast cereal.
The “Unlived Lives” series represent short fiction of the roles that might have been destined for me in an alternate dimension, purposes I believe were meant to be mine but remained unfulfilled in the present life.
