**Just Someone There**
That little shop in the square near King’s Cross used to be lively in summer. Kids licked ice creams and bickered over films and games. In autumn, builders in dusty orange hi-vis jackets stopped by for a bite, swapping gossip about who’d quit, who’d married, who was knackered. Now it was February. Grey, frozen, silent. The bench stood empty—except for Eleanor. Wrapped in a scarf like a cocoon, hiding from the world.
The wind tore the last brittle leaves from the trees, whistled in her ears, clawed at her shoulders. But she didn’t move. Just sat, staring at the pavement as if the answer lay under the grit and ice. Or at least a pause.
Beside her, a crumpled yoghurt pot—breakfast swallowed on autopilot, tasteless, joyless. Forty minutes till her GP appointment. She didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to go home either. Nowhere felt right. She just wanted to sit. No touching. No questions. No looks.
Yesterday, the clinic had said, “Nothing serious. Stress. Burnout. Rest.” The doctor spoke with practised detachment. The nurse shuffled papers. Eleanor nodded. Like always. Like at home, like at work. Then she left, unmoored. She didn’t feel *in* life anymore. Just outside it. Like she was on the wrong side of glass—able to see, but not reach.
Every morning she woke with a lump in her throat and the urge to vanish. Not die. Just *disappear*. To be invisible in crowds, on the Tube, in the school’s endless corridors. No one asking, *Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you call? Why so quiet?*
At home, her teenage son spoke in two-word exchanges: *”You eaten?” “Yeah.”* Her husband? Silence. A wall between them, thick and soundproof. Not fighting. Just… stopped. As if love had run out, leaving only hollow space.
Work was numbers in a secondary school ledger. No one bothered her. A blessing, maybe. But in that quiet, she wanted to scream. Loud. Till her voice cracked. Till it hurt.
Someone sank onto the bench beside her. An old man. Didn’t ask. Just sat. A rumpled parka, a knitted bobble hat. In his hands, a battered newspaper, creased like worn-out gloves. He unfolded it with a grumble, as if wrestling the wind. Cleared his throat.
“Proper draft today. Chills you to the bone.”
Eleanor gave a slight nod. Not looking. The wind *was* bitter—but that wasn’t the point.
A few minutes passed.
“You seem a bit…” He paused. “Like you’re not really here.”
She almost smiled. First time in days.
“I *am* here. Just… no one to talk to.”
“Aye,” he nodded. “Know the feeling. Was like that after my missus went. Everything’s there, but no one *with* you. Passes, though. Dunno if it’s the dog, or your soul dries up. Or you learn to talk to yourself. Easier on a bench.”
She turned her head.
“How long’s it been for you?”
“Eight years. Counted at first. Then stopped. Only remember *her* birthday now. Mine’s gone.”
She studied him. Wrinkles by his eyes. A quiet, warm gaze. Like an old blanket—plain, but familiar.
“Who’re you waiting for here?”
He gave a wry smile.
“No one. Walls don’t press in here. At home, they do. But here… there’s air. Folk walking by. Someone walking a terrier. Someone munching crisps. Sometimes a stranger sits. We chat. Or don’t. That’s a conversation too—if you know how to be quiet right.”
They fell silent. But not emptily. Just… there. For ten minutes, neither moved. Trees creaked, a jogger passed, a dog barked in the distance. Then Eleanor felt it—a shift inside. Not pain. Not relief. Just… life. Like a tiny crack you don’t notice till you brush it. Now she felt it.
“Just thought,” she murmured, “sometimes you don’t need a doctor. Just someone. Someone to sit with you. No questions. No explanations. Just… there.”
The old man said nothing. Just smoothed the paper on his knees, slow, like calming a child. His silence wasn’t indifference—it was allowance.
She never made it to the GP. Sat there till the bus came. Then he stood, gave a slight nod, and walked off. Didn’t look back. A slow, stooped shuffle. She stayed.
But different.
Sometimes all you need is someone. Not family. Not forever. Just someone to sit beside you, so you don’t vanish into your own silence. Someone who sees, doesn’t judge, asks no *whys*. Just is. There.
Sometimes that’s enough.
