In the beginning: a short story
#1 Meet Freya
This is the first instalment of your new fortnightly piece of fiction. The idea is that this will become an ongoing episodic column, so that each entry follows on from the last like one never-ending story. Though ideally, each piece should still be able to be read as a standalone piece.
I am unsure whether this will work or not, but there’s only one way to find out. Substack is the perfect place for creative experimentation. In my notes, I wrote “700-800 words every other week of fiction (a snippet of the life of a female character)”. We’re starting there.
I debated leaving my protagonist unnamed. But found it too hard to try and envision her without one. After combing through baby name websites (and probably fucking up my algorithm), I settled on Freya. I have not met many Freyas, and that was the first draw. It is a name without preconceptions (for me, at least) and I liked this too. There are so many arbitrary yet vitally important parameters to consider. Personality reflects name, right, Sugababes? Freya, to me, embodies the kind of relatability that can come from a name that isn’t drenched in stereotypes. It feels a bit more timeless (though I just made the mistake of searching for it and have seen it was the most popular girls’ name in 2025 and am now doubting everything). Anyway.
Freya translates directly as ‘lady’ from Old Norse. I like its history and ancient roots. She is the goddess of love, beauty, fertility, war, and magic. She is sensitive, but independent, an epitome of femininity. I don’t want to get too bogged down in the rigidity of meaning - but it all fits perfectly.
Rather, I want to keep things relatively fluid. I haven’t fleshed out too many details about Freya yet. This is all a work in progress and experiments need room to take shape as they grow. I am meeting Freya with you. She is yet to reveal more of herself to us both. This is what we know about her so far:
Freya is twenty-eight. She lives in a flat share in London. She has been single for two years, after breaking off her nearly six-year relationship with Cameron. They met at uni and made it official in third year after casually sleeping together and finding themselves in each other’s beds after almost every Wednesday sports social. He was on the rugby team. She played hockey but wasn’t very good. She picked it because they had space and she wanted to make friends. The moment Cameron asked her to be his girlfriend, she sensed inner resistance; a niggle of uncertainty. But it seemed like the right “should” at the time.
“Should” has been the guiding force for the majority of Freya’s life. Since the break-up, she has slowly been detangling. Her innate people pleasing infuriates her, she is bored of fearing the judgement of others, and she no longer feels aligned with the ways she had previously described or identified herself.
She is more uncertain than ever of who she is and what she wants. Living with the bumpers up meant she’s bowled her way through every stage of life without real risk of failure or desire to interrogate decisions. She craved something predictable and easy. It became entirely suffocating.
More than enough to kick us off, I think.
Freya will navigate dating, love, friendships, family, relationships, her career, living in a city, and through it all, question the individual bricks her life is built upon. Is it too late? Does she get to choose? Can she be bothered, or is she too tired? What the fuck comes next?
Her mouth tasted acrid, like old cigarettes and bitter coffee. She hadn’t brushed her teeth that day. She hadn’t washed her face, showered, or been outside either. The outline of her body could be seen on the sofa, where she had spent the day lying in the same spot, drifting in and out of sleep. In the dips of consciousness, she had caught snippets of game shows, gardening, and people hunting for bargains. For breakfast, at one pm, she reheated a leftover burger she’d kept from over-ordering the day before. It was cold in the middle. She ate it anyway. It had been two days since his last text.
She’d tried to dissect what went wrong, desperate to pinpoint the exact precise moment things shifted. Going over and over, she reread their messages and replayed things he’d said. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner? It wasn’t until they parted ways two days ago (their fourth date, a coffee and a long stroll in Clissold Park) that she knew. That fucking forehead kiss.
Tomorrow, she says to herself. She vows she’ll get a grip. Because, if she is honest with herself, she didn’t fancy him, and he wasn’t even fit. At all. He wore cuffed trousers and called her “baby g” over text. Once, he sent a typo (“baba g”) and all she could think about for the rest of the day was baba ganoush. Had got the bus to the Turkish in Stoke Newington to satisfy the craving.
She wanted to be wanted; missed the feeling of basking in the glow of someone else’s adoration. Cameron used to look at her as though she were an oasis in an arid desert. She was the first drop of water on his tongue after a drought. Realising she took being on the receiving end of love for granted made her feel so hopelessly sorry for herself. The shame of her naivety was mortifying.
