The morning was crisp, as if autumn had barged into Manchester without knocking. Oliver packed his things in a silence that rang louder than any argument. No shouting, no door slamming—just the rustle of neatly folded jumpers, the click of a charger pulled from the socket, the creak of a toothbrush case. He paused by the window, staring at the grey courtyard below. Not for farewell, but to memorise the way the light caught the peeling paint, how the shadow of an old curtain draped over the sill. Emily slept. Or pretended to. Likely the latter—her breathing was too even, like someone afraid of being touched.
In the kitchen, he flicked the kettle on. His hands didn’t tremble, but inside, everything felt like shattered glass beads spilling from a snapped thread. Not pain, not anger—just silence, heavy as a suitcase that wouldn’t quite shut.
They hadn’t fought. No affairs. No raised voices. They’d simply stopped being *them*. Day by day, grain by grain, they’d drifted apart without noticing, until the gap between them echoed with hollowness.
“When are you leaving?” Emily asked, appearing in the doorway. Her voice was flat, almost indifferent, as if she were inquiring about the weather, not the man standing by the counter.
“Now,” Oliver replied, not looking up. He knew if he met her eyes, he’d never walk away.
She said nothing. He didn’t turn. In that quiet hung everything: *stay*, *go*, *I can’t do this anymore*, *none of this was supposed to happen*. It dangled between them, a final thread neither dared grasp.
He left the key on the console table by the door. No glance back, no hesitation. The stairwell smelled of damp, last night’s takeaways, and the morning bustle—doors slamming, dishes clinking. Oliver descended like he was finishing a level in a game he’d played too many times: no mistakes, no feeling. Inside, he was swept clean, like a flat after moving out—tidy, but eerily empty.
First, he crashed on a mate’s sofa in a cramped flat on the outskirts. Then rented a room—small, with flaking paint and a bed that groaned at every shift. He started running at dawn, not because he liked it, but to drown the hollowness in exhaustion. Shopped at a different Tesco where no one recognised him. Blasted music even when he wasn’t listening, just to avoid the quiet. New routes, new habits, new faces. Changed everything he could. But the silence stayed, settling beside him each night, staring into the dark, refusing to let go.
Emily kept the flat. Their curtains. His books on the shelf. His mug, untouched. The bathroom shelf stayed as it was; the fridge photo lingered. They’d become strangers—no drama, no betrayal. Just because they’d waited too long to speak the truth. Because each had waited for the other to move first.
Three months passed.
They bumped into each other at the corner Boots on a drizzly afternoon, the street nearly empty. Oliver was buying plasters and paracetamol; Emily, cough syrup and ointment. Their eyes met, and both froze, as if time had paused.
“Hi,” he said, softer than he meant to.
“Hi,” she replied, studying him. “You’ve lost weight.”
He shrugged. Meant to joke—“Work, running, not sleeping.” Said nothing. Paid, left first, forcing himself to walk slowly, as if that could change anything.
Two days later, he texted. Not a question, a proposal: *Coffee. No talking.* No hope, no expectations. Just sent it. She replied almost instantly. Agreed. Short, no fuss. As if she’d been waiting. Or known he’d message.
They met at a little café by the park. It smelled of fresh pastries, coffee, and something faintly new, still unwrapped. Oliver watched her—not his anymore, but achingly familiar. Emily watched him—no anger, no blame, but like she was peering through glass at the life they’d left behind.
“I thought you’d come back,” she said, calm, as if stating something inevitable.
“I waited for you to call,” he answered, just as even. No hints. No pleas.
They smiled—bitter, but light. Like people who’d finally understood, but had no idea what to do next.
Sometimes, what grows between people isn’t a wall. It’s silence. The kind you’re afraid to break. Because in it lurks the fear of being turned away. Or hearing a truth you’re not ready for.
They didn’t say *let’s try again*. Didn’t reach for each other, scramble for words to fix it. Just drank their coffee. Slowly. Each in their own quiet. Then left—separate ways. No promises. No looking back.
But an hour later, she texted: *If you ever want to meet again—I wouldn’t mind.*
He replied: *Was just about to say the same.*
It wasn’t about love. Not about going back. It was about the silence finally lifting, just a little. About hearing each other—not in words, but in the pauses, where the hurt had dulled. And hope, just a sliver, had crept in.
