The morning is eerily quiet. The stairwell, as usual, smells of stale air—a mix of cat food, old plastic, and something sickly sweet, like rotting tangerine peel or cheap perfume. Emily leans her forehead against the cold doorframe and freezes, listening as the balcony door in the flat next door slams shut again. The third time this week. A sharp, nervous sound—not just the wind. It’s like a shout, an echo of someone else’s argument, as if the wall between their lives has grown too thin.
She sniffles, not from the cold but from exhaustion. She slips on her worn-out grey trainers—her “armour.” In them, she’s nearly invisible, but at least she feels put together. Whole. Even if everything inside is coming apart.
The neighbour from the fourth floor, the one with brick-dust-coloured stubble and the same navy tracksuit, slips past like a shadow. Once, he stopped her in the hall with, “Must be lonely, being on your own, eh?” Ever since, his voice scrapes like rust under her skin.
The bus is late, as always. Inside, it smells of damp coats, stale lager, and quiet desperation. Emily grips the handrail so hard her knuckles whiten, staring at the foggy window. Her reflection—a pale face, dark hollows under her eyes, a grey coat slipping off one shoulder. Like nothing quite fits. Her mum would say, “You’re like a ghost.” But her mum doesn’t know what it’s like when days don’t end—they just bleed into one long, grey smear, impossible to untangle.
The office is empty. Almost everyone works from home now. Only the ones like her stay—those for whom home is worse than this lifeless corridor. Here, at least, there are no accusations, no plates hurled at walls, no eyes boring into her. Here, it’s safe. Cold. Empty. But safe.
At lunch, she steps into the business centre’s courtyard. She doesn’t smoke. Just stands there. A security guard walks past, pretending not to see her—as usual. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. Mum.
“Mum, I’m at work.”
“You’re alone again. Why don’t you go out? Just for a walk or something.”
“Busy.”
“Emily, love, this isn’t living. You’re just existing. At thirty-two—”
“Gotta go, Mum.”
She hangs up. No anger. Just no strength left for excuses.
On the way back, she stops at the shop. Buys brie, rolls, peppermint tea. At the till—an older man. He smiles and lets her go ahead.
“Thanks,” she says, surprised at how light her voice sounds.
At home, it’s already dark, though evening hasn’t fully settled. She turns on the fairy lights instead of the ceiling lamp—the same ones strung up years ago at Christmas. Back then, in that winter, everything felt different. Simple. Bright. Warm. They laughed, ate burnt toast, played music from a phone. Now—it’s just her.
She sits on the floor, leans against the wall. The fridge clicks, like a reminder the flat is still alive. She doesn’t flinch. Just breathes. The sounds aren’t enemies anymore. They’re witnesses.
She picks up her phone. Opens the folder labelled “Voice.” Fifteen files. Him saying, “I’m here, you’re the only one,” “We’ll figure it out,” “You’re special.” And the last one—fragments, a shout, swearing, a dull thud—a door? A fist? A heartbeat?
Emily presses delete. Her hand doesn’t shake.
She stands. Opens the window. Reaches for the air—dirty, autumn-sharp, real. The balcony door slams again. She smiles.
“Let it,” she whispers. “Let it slam.”
She boils the kettle. Arranges the rolls on a white plate. Sits at the table. Opens her laptop. Types the first line:
“That day, I wasn’t afraid of being alone—I just felt, for the first time, that I was alive.”
And it’s enough. Enough for this broken, lopsided world to stop feeling hostile. Because now—it’s hers. Not bright. Not perfect. But hers.
