The morning was eerily quiet. The stairwell, as always, smelled of stale air—a mix of cat food, old plastic, and something vaguely sweet, like rotting orange peel or cheap perfume. Emily pressed her forehead against the cold doorframe and froze, listening as the balcony door next door slammed shut again. The third time this week. A sharp, nervous sound—not just the wind. It was like a shout, an echo of someone else’s argument, as if the wall between their lives had grown too thin.
She sniffed. Not from the cold—from exhaustion. She tugged on her worn-out trainers, the ones with the heels long since flattened—her “armour.” In them, she was nearly invisible but at least put together. Whole. Even if inside, everything had already come undone.
The neighbour from the fourth floor, the one with brick-dust-coloured stubble and the same blue tracksuit, slipped past like a shadow. Once, he’d stopped her in the hallway with, “Must be lonely, living alone, eh?” Since then, his voice cut like rusted metal under a fingernail.
The bus was late, as usual. Inside reeked of damp jackets, stale beer, and hopelessness. Emily gripped the handrail until her knuckles whitened, staring through the grimy window. Her reflection—a pale face, a bruise-like hollow under one eye, a grey coat slipping off her shoulder. As if nothing about her fit right. Her mum would’ve said, “You look like a ghost.” But her mum didn’t know what it was like to live when the days didn’t end, just blurred into one thick, grey sludge with no beginning or end.
The office was empty. Almost everyone had gone remote. Only people like her remained—those for whom home was worse than this lifeless corridor. At least here, there were no sharp words, no plates hurled at walls, no stares that bored right through her. Here was safe. Cold. Empty. But safe.
At one, she stepped into the business centre’s courtyard. She didn’t smoke. Just stood there. The security guard walked past, pretending not to notice—same as always. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Mum.
“Mum, I’m at work.”
“You’re alone again. Maybe go out somewhere? Even just for a walk.”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Emily, love, this isn’t living. You’re just existing. At thirty-two…”
“Gotta go, Mum.”
She hung up. No anger. Just no strength left to explain.
On the way back, she stopped at the shop. Bought soft cheese, rolls, peppermint tea. At the till, an older man smiled and wordlessly let her go ahead.
“Thanks,” she said. Surprised at how light, how calm it sounded.
Home was already dark, though evening hadn’t quite arrived. Emily turned on not the ceiling light, but the old fairy lights—the ones they’d hung up that one Christmas. Back then, that winter, everything had felt different. Simple. Warm. They’d laughed, eaten burnt toast, played music from a phone. Now—just her.
She sat right on the floor, leaning against the wall. The fridge clicked, as if reminding her the flat was still alive. She didn’t flinch. Just sighed. The sounds weren’t enemies anymore. They were witnesses.
She picked up her phone. Opened the folder labelled “Voice.” Fifteen files. Him saying, “I’m here, you’re the only one,” “We’ll make it,” “You’re special.” And the last one—broken words, shouting, a dull thud—door? fist? heart?
Emily pressed delete. Her hand didn’t shake.
She stood. Opened the window. Reached for the air—dirty, autumnal, real. Next door, the balcony door slammed again. She smiled.
“Let it,” she whispered. “Let it slam.”
She made tea. Arranged the rolls on a white plate. Sat at the table. Opened her laptop. Typed the first line:
“That day, I wasn’t afraid of being alone—I felt alive for the first time.”
And it was enough. Enough for the world, jagged and crooked as it was, to stop feeling hostile. Because now—it was hers. Not happy. Not perfect. But hers.
