Attempt at remembering without unravelling

On returning to Brighton, and all the ghosts that live there

Photo by Tom Hoppe on Unsplash

I stood at the edge of the seafront, staring out at the old, burned-down pier—its skeletal remains jutting from the water like an apparition. I’ve known this place my whole life, but now, something felt irrevocably different.

There was a time I came here to feel big. To lose myself in something wild—the biting sea air, the shouts of drunken teenagers, the salt spray on my lips. Back then, it felt like everything was just beginning. Now, standing there, I felt empty. Like the only thing with room to grow was the ache in my chest.

The pier didn’t used to be this hollowed out shell. It was once a splendid Victorian ghost, in dire need of repair, but always signalling promise—the promise of a romantic past and a long-off future. I imagined one day, if it were ever brought back to life, I would stroll along its deck in the sunshine, my summer dress catching on the breeze.

But then it was burnt. Not once, but twice.

Arson, the news said.

My heart broke, along with many hearts in Brighton—a city of sentimental dreamers.
Grief, I was learning, never really belonged to one person or one moment.

Back in town to visit friends with my husband, I walked along the seafront, an old point-and-shoot camera in hand, chasing echoes of my teenage years. The years I spent here with Emily.

There is a peculiar sense of pain to returning, alone, to an area so fundamental to a relationship. Everywhere I turned, I was washed over with grief. Pain that I tried to mask, from my friends and from myself.

Here is where Emily and I would go dancing every night.

We’d smear on cheap lip gloss in the dingy bathroom mirror, trade each other’s clothes, down cheap shots from disposable plastic glasses. We moved like we owned the place—her confident, me codependent, both of us laughing as though nothing could ever touch us.

Here is where Emily once tripped over, her heels too high for the uneven streets.

Down the slope to the art studio, she fell, as a taxi driver heckled her from his nearby vehicle.

Here is where we walked, arm in arm, best friends against a world of watching men. Their eyes resting on our lips and her hips and my legs.

I tried to remember the girl I was back then—all sharp angles and quiet desperation. I was desperate to be loved. To be freed from the gnawing self-hatred I carried like a second skin. And Emily was my anchor. The light I followed—the person I always wanted to impress.

And though I can walk the same streets, I can’t return to how they once felt to me—streets that once brimmed with excitement, thick with the promise of how wonderful our lives were going to be.

But now, every time I turn a corner, my heart whispers the same question:

Will I see her there?

It’s been nearly seven years since Emily died—and far longer since the two of us lived here. I struggle to comprehend how one moment we were laughing here, and the next, she was gone.

And yet, some part of me still forgets.

Still hopes.

Even though I know—as does my heart—that it’s impossible.

Sometimes I imagine there's a secret street in Brighton no one knows about. It’s quiet and cobbled, lit by a glow that isn’t quite of this world. And if you follow it far enough—past the fish shops and the bars and the bones of the old pier—you’ll reach the sea.

The air on that street tastes of salt and sugar, and the orange light soaks me through, like late June twilight. There are no tourists here, no past or future. Only the soft sound of waves, and the tug of something familiar calling you home.

And she’ll be there. Emily, with her long brown hair blowing in the breeze.

Me, spindly and tender and full of too many feelings.

Together again, if only for a moment.

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If you could go back to a moment in your life, would you? When would it be? I’d love to hear.

Oh, and don’t forget to tap the 🩷 button on your way out.

(Unhearted posts are terribly draughty.)

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