*Simple Life*
When the bus shuddered to a halt in the middle of a bustling street, passengers gripped the handrails tighter. Someone muttered a curse, while another pressed against the fogged window, trying to spot the cause of the delay. The air hummed with irritation and curiosity. The conductor squeezed toward the driver’s cab, pulled open the door, and froze—as if staring at something that didn’t belong on this chilly, damp morning in Manchester.
Outside stood a woman in a faded red coat. One hand clutched a leash, the other held an umbrella with a bent spoke. On the leash sat a dog—huge, with tangled fur and a muzzle lowered almost to the ground. It didn’t move, as if carved from stone. Its paws dug into the pavement, ears flat, eyes fixed on the tarmac. No anger, no fear—just a heavy, stubborn stillness, like it carried a weight no words could explain.
“He won’t move,” the woman’s voice wavered. “We were walking, and then—just stopped. I tugged, called him… nothing.”
The driver stepped out, eyeing the dog, then the woman, then the dog again. He crouched, meeting its gaze.
“What’s got into you, mate? Tired? Or life got you down?”
Slowly, the dog lifted its head. In its eyes was such human sorrow that everyone watching felt their chest tighten. It didn’t bark or growl—just stared, as if trying to tell a lifetime of stories without words. This wasn’t just exhaustion. It was pain, dull as an echo in an empty house. The driver straightened, as if accepting the silent answer.
Minutes later, the bus rumbled forward. The woman, murmuring thanks, led the dog away. It moved slowly, uncertainly, as if each paw belonged to someone else—but it moved.
From his seat by the window, James whispered under his breath: “That’s me. Stuck. Can’t go on.” The words slipped out quietly, like a confession that had lived inside him for far too long.
He stepped off at the next stop, though his actual destination was miles away. He walked without purpose, inertia carrying him forward as if he’d forgotten where he was headed. The wind whipped his face, crept under his collar, but James barely noticed. He trudged through the snowy square, past bare trees and a playground where rusty swings creaked in the gusts like old memories.
Home held no appeal. The flat was hollow, the silence ringing in his ears. Not just empty of people—the air itself felt dead, untouched by voices or movement. Only the hum of the fridge in the corner reminded him life went on, even if he barely did.
James was forty-three. An engineer—reliable, invisible, like a cog in a machine. The sort who never shouted, never demanded, just did what needed doing. Not a hero, not a victim—just a man. Seventeen years of marriage, two kids, a mortgage, holidays at his mother-in-law’s cottage. Then—a crack. Everything collapsed. His wife left. Said she was suffocating. Said he was like a ghost: always there, but never truly alive. She walked out without a fight, her resolve leaving no room for questions.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t beg. Just drove to the woods and sat until dawn, listening to the wind howl through the branches. Then he returned. Grew quieter. Lived by routine: work, bills, weekends with the kids, birthdays, cinema trips. Everything normal. But inside—emptiness, like a derelict house.
Yet each day, something in his chest tightened further. Like a steel band, cinched relentlessly—first barely there, then crushing, relentless. Sometimes he caught himself struggling to breathe, as if the air had turned thick and foreign.
Now he walked—like that dog. Stopped. Couldn’t go on. Not from pain or fear, but from pointlessness. The same road, the same faces, the same hollow evenings. He didn’t crave change. Just a pause—to stop being himself for even a second.
On a bench in the square, he sat. The air smelled of wet earth, pine needles, something faint and half-remembered—maybe childhood, maybe winter. A bloke passed by, a speaker blaring a raspy song about heartbreak. Then an elderly couple shuffled past, the woman steadying her husband, their steps so tender James had to look away.
He watched them and thought: *Everyone has someone. Something. And I’ve got nothing. And it doesn’t even hurt. Like there was never anything to lose.* The thoughts came calmly, without bitterness—like a verdict already accepted.
“Excuse me,” a voice piped up. “Have you got a phone? Mine’s dead, and I need to call my sister.”
A girl of about eleven stood before him—jacket smudged, freckled cheeks, a scuffed backpack in hand.
“Course.” James handed her his mobile.
She stepped away, rattled off a quick message, then returned.
“Thanks. Why’re you sitting here alone?”
“Just resting,” he said, unsure why he was explaining himself.
“Right. Only you look… sad. Our neighbour sits like that when his girlfriend from Birmingham won’t text him. He’s in love but won’t say. Who’re you in love with?”
James stilled. The question struck like lightning—unexpected, unerring. His chest ached, as if his heart had suddenly remembered it could still beat.
“No one. Shouldn’t you be with someone?”
“I am. Gran’s over there, nodding off. I went for bread. Don’t be sad, alright? Mum says when someone sits quiet, they’re sorting things out inside. That what you’re doing?”
He nodded, almost involuntarily.
“Yeah.”
“Then it’ll be fine. Bye!”
She darted off, light as a spark, her backpack bouncing behind her like a tiny beacon. James stayed. And suddenly, his chest felt lighter. Like something had shifted—not everything, but something vital, like a gear finally clicking into place.
He stood. Stretched. Breathed deeper than usual. And walked—not hurriedly, but firmer, as if each step meant something. The wind still tugged at his collar, but it no longer felt like an enemy.
Nothing extraordinary had happened. No revelations, no miracles. Just a day. Just a dog. Just a girl. Normal things. But sometimes, that’s enough to make you want to keep going.
