Every morning, I drag myself out of bed before the sun’s even up. It’s early, and I’m tired, but I’ve gotten used to it. I don’t have much of a choice, do I? I get dressed in the dark, trying not to wake up my flatmate, and head out the door. It’s an hour on the train to St Albans, and sometimes, I just sit there, staring out the window, wishing I didn’t have to make this trip every day. But I do, because I love my job.

I work in this little coffee shop in the centre of town, and from the moment I step inside, it feels like everything’s okay for a while. The place is warm and welcoming, the regulars are friendly, and there’s something about making coffee that just makes me happy. I know everyone by name, and I remember their orders without thinking. It’s like I’m part of the community, even if it’s just for a few hours each day.

But no matter how much I love it, there’s this constant reminder that I don’t really belong. I can’t afford to live in St Albans. God, I’ve tried to make it work—I’ve looked at the listings, crunched the numbers—but it’s impossible. The rent’s just too high, more than I make in a month. Even the tiniest flats are out of reach for me. So, I’m stuck commuting, spending hours on trains, because it’s the only way I can do what I love.

It’s hard not to feel a bit jealous when I see the locals coming in, knowing they get to stay here, while I have to rush off to catch the last train home. They belong in St Albans in a way that I don’t, and it hurts a little. I wish I could just walk to work, take my time in the morning, and not have to worry about the journey home at night.

After my shift, when things quiet down, I often hang around for a few minutes, just looking out the window. St Albans feels like home in those moments, and I can almost imagine what it’d be like to really live here, to not have to leave. But then the clock reminds me it’s time to go, and reality sets in. I’ve got to catch that train and head back to my flat, miles away from the place I wish I could call home.

I dream about the day I might be able to afford to live closer, to make this town my real home. But for now, I’ve just got to keep making the best of it, keep doing what I love, even if it means an hour’s journey there and back every single day. It’s tiring, and sometimes it gets me down, but as long as I’m in that coffee shop, serving those people, it feels like I’m doing something that matters. And that keeps me going, even when it’s hard.