The train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I felt a sense of relief. The interview was over. I had done everything I could. The rest was out of my hands.
Emma was waiting for me on the platform, a beacon of warmth and familiarity in the bustling station. She was wearing my Moss Side hoodie, a small, defiant gesture of support that made my heart swell with love.
She ran to me as I stepped off the train, and I wrapped her in my arms, burying my face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. In that moment, I didn't care about the job, about the interview, about the future. I was home.
"So," she said, pulling back to look at me, her eyes sparkling with a playful curiosity. "Did you dazzle them with your tactical genius, or did you just bore them to sleep with your pressing stats?"
