Yesterday morning Poppy turned her phone up to the absolute max, just in case. Deep down she knew he wouldnt write back. The feeling was like the weight before a rainstorm thick, inevitable, the air turning heavy before the downpour. Still she pressed play. Hope is a stubborn old scar: it aches, yet it clings. She tossed her hair into a careless bun, enough care to look natural, enough polish to be pretty. On she slipped a darkgreen coat the very one hed once remarked made her look like an autumn wood. Shed hardly worn it since, but today she pulled it from the wardrobe. She painted her lips a bold scarlet, far too vivid for a simple stroll to the chemist and the bakery.
The chemist was a bustle of noise. Someone croaked a cough in the corner, another argued over the price of tablets, a third stood silent, shifting weight from foot to foot. The scent of herbs mixed with that sharp, antiseptic tang of medicine. Poppy grabbed the vitamin bottles hed recommended three years ago, back when they still shared morning coffees. She held the packet, reading the tiny print. Best before next autumn as if the box itself were counting down its own remaining months.
The bakery smelled exactly as it always did: a bloke with a tattoo on his wrist behind the counter, fresh bread and cinnamon filling the air, a battered speaker humming soft music. She bought a raspberry croissant the very one he had 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 was simpler. The other just because it existed. A tiny fragment of the past you can slip into a pocket.
Back at the flat, she froze. Silence hung heavy, like dust settled on the spines of old books. The air seemed still, as if it feared to move. Her phone lay on the windowsill, screen down, as if ashamed of her gaze. No texts. No missed calls. It felt as though the world had walked past, not noticing her, and she herself had become a shadow melting into the grey morning light.
She set the kettle on, slipped off the coat slowly, as if afraid to disturb the hush. She placed her boots neatly by the door, straightened the collar on the coat rack. She turned on the old radio a broadcaster rattling about traffic jams, then a fresh snowfall, then an exhibition at the local museum. Everything came out muffled, as if spoken from beneath water. She sipped the tea scalding, almost burning, yet she swallowed without a wince. She moved to the window, pressed her forehead against the cold glass.
Outside, fine, prickly snow fell, landing on umbrellas, scarves, the pavement, then vanishing almost as quickly. A young father in a dark park adjusted his sons hat with gentle, seasoned care. Elderly couples shuffled along, leaning on each other as if their hands had fused over decades. Some hurried, slipping on the icy sidewalk; others laughed, heads buried in phones; some lingered before shop windows festooned with festive lights. Life rolled on noisy, vibrant, indifferent. It passed her by like a train that left the platform while she lingered, unable to decide whether to board.
He didnt write.
Still, Poppy grabbed a broom and swept the floor, though there was barely a speck of dust. She rang her aunt, listening to tales of the cottage garden, the neighbours new dog, a fresh pie recipe. She watered the ancient cactus, checking it hadnt turned yellow. She booked a doctors appointment a trivial thing shed been postponing for months. She reviewed the bills, all settled, and ticked the box in her planner. She laundered the blanket, adding a little extra fabric softener so the house would smell warm and livedin.
In the evening she lit lamps in every room, not because she feared darkness but because the house seemed alive with light its windows glowing, reflecting off the damp pavement, whispering, Someones here. Life is here.
Poppy stared at her reflection in the glass and thought, He didnt write. But I am here. No excuse, no challenge, just a quiet truth. Like a candle lit not for anyone else but for oneself, a reminder that youre still standing, still breathing. The lesson I took away: you dont need anothers words to validate your existence; you simply have to keep the light burning for yourself.
