Quiet as It Is
When Emily said, “I’m tired of being quiet,” she didn’t shout. She just laid her fork on the table, gazed out the window, and said it—calmly, almost casually. The way someone might say, “Time to take out the bins” or “Forgot to buy milk.” No drama, but the room went silent all the same, like someone had hit mute.
James looked up from his phone but didn’t quite grasp it at first. He’d heard her voice, but the meaning took a moment to land, like sound carried over water. He glanced at her, then back at his screen—as if there were glass between them, blurring everything.
“What d’you mean?”
“About us. About how we live. Quietly.”
He didn’t answer. Looked at his phone again. The thought flickered: “Here we go.” Except there was no “here we go.” She’d been quiet for ages. Too long. And he knew it but pretended not to notice. Easier that way. No fights. No awkward pauses. Only now the pause had stretched into something permanent.
They’d been together seven years. There’d been everything: trips, rows, rubbish telly, mates, redecorating the flat. They’d bickered over nothing, made up over midnight toast, split a cake down the middle, said stupid things in unison. Then—like someone turned the volume down. Not all at once. Bit by bit. First, they stopped listening. Then they stopped saying. Stopped calling each other during the day. Stopped asking, “How was your shift?” Then just… lived. A tidy kitchen, the kettle on, bills on the counter. No flavour. No reason. No “we.”
“I don’t hear myself here, James,” she said, still staring out the window. “Like I’m not even real.”
He wanted to say something important. That he did hear her. That it wasn’t like that. That he was just knackered, just tangled up. That he loved her, just forgot how to say it. But the words wouldn’t come. Not because he didn’t—but because he hadn’t spoken them aloud in so long, he’d gone deaf to his own voice.
Emily stood, put her mug in the sink. Then slipped on her coat. Took her keys. Walked out. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even know if he should. And that was the worst of it. Not her footsteps, not the latch clicking. But how easy it was. No shouting. No “stay.” Too easy, like nothing much was being lost.
She walked down the street, the frost underfoot crisp like something from a film. People hurried past, eyes ahead. Emily stopped at a crossing and, for the first time in ages, felt herself right where she was. Not where she ought to be—just here, now. No past, no imaginary future. A strange, quiet peace, like her body had finally caught up with her soul.
That night, she didn’t go to a friend’s or her mum’s. Just wandered, turning where her feet took her. Stopped at the bakery where she and James used to sit. Bought a Chelsea bun. Sat by the window, still in her coat. It smelled of cinnamon, vanilla, and something half-remembered. For the first time in years, she didn’t want to talk it through, explain, dissect. Just wanted to live the evening. For herself. No role. No audience.
James texted two days later. No grand gesture. Just: “You alright?” Like it was nothing, like habit, not loneliness. She replied: “Getting on.” No full stop. No fuss. Just that. He didn’t text again. She didn’t wait. Not because she didn’t care—but because for the first time, she felt it: waiting was optional.
Weeks passed. Then a month. She rented a flat on the outskirts, big windows overlooking a car park where gulls squawked at dawn. Started walking in the mornings—not because she had to, but because her body craved it. Began jotting three lines a day in a notebook. Not about feelings. Just what she’d seen. Who’d smiled. Where it was quiet. The cashier’s chipped nail polish. How the bus smelled of rain. Her way of staying present, where everything was new, unlearned, without James.
Sometimes she thought of him. Not angrily. Not wistfully. Just—as someone she’d once breathed in sync with. Watched the same shows, laughed at the same silly ads. Then each started staring at their own screen. Someone she’d been with. Someone she’d become without. And then it ended. No fanfare. No final act. No big speech. Just what happens. Like a song fading in an empty room when no one presses replay. Quiet as it is.
Sometimes what you need isn’t “come back,” “understand,” or “listen.” Sometimes it’s just stopping the wait for someone else to speak for you. And starting to say it yourself. Even if it’s shaky. Even if it’s slow. But out loud. So you can hear yourself again. So you can be.
