Yesterday morning Poppy cranked her phone to the loudest setting, just in case. Deep down she knew he wouldnt text back the feeling was as inevitable as the drizzle that always shows up before a downpour, thickening the air like a prestorm haze. Still, she hit the volume up. Hope is a bit like an old scar: it aches, but it refuses to let go.
She tossed her hair into a careless bun, with just enough polish to look natural yet tidy, and slipped on the dark green coat hed once teased was reminiscent of an English woodland in October. Shed hardly worn it since, but today she pulled it out of the wardrobe. She brushed on a bold, scarlet shade of lipstick far too bright for a stroll to the chemist and the bakery.
The chemist was buzzing. Someone was hacking in the corner, another arguing over the price of cough syrup, a third shifting weight from foot to foot in silent misery. The air smelled of herbal tinctures and something sharp, unmistakably medical. Poppy grabbed a packet of vitamins the very ones hed recommended three years ago when they still shared morning coffees. She turned the pack over, reading the tiny print: Best before next autumn. As if even the expiry date was counting down the months of a dwindling romance.
At the bakery, nothing had changed: a bloke with a tattoo on his wrist manning the counter, the warm scent of fresh bread and cinnamon, and a battered speaker coughing out soft jazz. She bought a raspberry croissant the one hed once called the taste of morning while wiping crumbs from his chin. She took two: one for tea at home, like the days when life felt simpler, and a spare one, just because a little fragment of the past can be tucked into a pocket.
Back at the flat, she froze. The silence was heavy, like a layer of dust settled on old books. The air seemed motionless, as if it were afraid to stir. Her phone lay on the windowsill, screen face down, as if embarrassed to be looked at. No messages. No missed calls. It was as if the world had decided to walk past without a second glance, and shed become a shadow melting into the grey morning light.
She set the kettle on, slipped off the coat slowly, as though fearing to disturb the hush. She placed her shoes neatly by the door, straightened the collar on the coat rack, and turned on the ancient radio. The announcer droned about traffic jams, a sudden snowstorm, and a new exhibition at the local museum, each word muffled like it was underwater. She took a sip of tea scalding enough to singe the tongue but swallowed without grimacing. Then she pressed her forehead to the cold glass of the window.
Outside, fine, prickly snow was falling, landing on umbrellas, scarves, the pavement, and disappearing almost as quickly as it arrived. A young dad in a dark park coat adjusted his sons hat with the gentle care that only years can teach. Elderly couples shuffled along, leaning on each other as if their hands had fused over decades. Someone hurried, slipping on the icy footpath; another laughed, eyes glued to a phone; a third lingered by a shop window adorned with festive lights. Life went on noisy, lively, indifferent passing her by like a train that left the platform just as she hesitated to hop on.
He didnt write.
Nevertheless, Poppy grabbed a broom and swept the floor, even though there was barely a speck of dust. She called her Aunt, listening to tales of the garden, the next-door neighbour, and a new cake recipe. She gave the ancient cactus a careful drink, checking it hadnt turned yellow. She booked a doctors appointment a trivial thing shed been postponing for months. She checked the bills everything was paid and ticked the box in her diary. She laundered the throw, adding a splash of scented softener so the house would smell a bit cozier, a bit alive.
In the evening she switched on the lights in every room, not because she feared darkness but because an illuminated house feels like a living thing the windows glowing, reflecting off the wet pavement, whispering, Someones here. Lifes still here.
Poppy stared at her reflection in the glass and thought, He didnt write. But Im here. No excuse, no challenge, just a quiet truth. Like a candle lit for yourself, not for anyone else, to remember: youre still standing.
