**Just Life**
When the bus halted in the middle of the bustling high street, the passengers clutched the handrails tighter. Someone cursed under their breath; another pressed their face against the fogged-up window, straining to spot the cause of the delay. The air hummed with irritation and curiosity. The conductor pushed her way to the driver’s cabin, flung the door open, and froze—as if she’d stumbled upon something that didn’t belong in the damp, grey chill of a Manchester morning.
Outside stood a woman in a threadbare red anorak. In one hand, a lead; in the other, a wonky umbrella missing a rib. At the end of the lead sat a dog—enormous, shaggy, its muzzle drooping low. It didn’t move, as if carved from stone. Its paws seemed rooted to the tarmac, ears flat, eyes fixed on the ground. No anger, no fear—just a heavy, stubborn stillness, as though it carried a weight beyond words.
“He won’t budge,” the woman’s voice wavered. “We were walking, and suddenly he just sat. Like this. I’ve tugged, I’ve called—nothing.”
The driver stepped down, glanced at the dog, then at the woman, then back at the dog. He crouched, peering into its eyes.
“What’s up, mate? Tired? Or has life got you down?”
The dog lifted its head slowly. Its gaze held such human sorrow that everyone watching felt their chest tighten. No barking, no growling—just a look that seemed to hold an entire lifetime of words left unsaid. This wasn’t mere exhaustion. It was pain, dull and echoing, like footsteps in an empty house. The driver straightened up, as if accepting the silent answer.
The bus moved on minutes later. The woman muttered thanks and tugged the dog away. It walked slowly, unsteadily, as if each paw were unfamiliar—but it moved.
From his seat by the window, James whispered to himself, “That’s me. Stuck. Can’t go on.” The words escaped quietly, like an admission that had lingered too long inside.
He got off at the next stop, though his flat was still miles away. He walked without purpose, inertia guiding him, as if he’d forgotten where he was headed. The wind lashed his face, snuck under his collar, but James barely noticed. He cut through a snowy park, past bare trees and a deserted playground where the swings creaked in the gusts like old memories.
Home held no appeal. The flat was hollow, the silence ringing in his ears. Not just an absence of people—the air itself felt untouched, dead. Only the fridge’s low hum reminded him life went on, even when he barely did.
James was forty-three. An engineer, dependable and unremarkable—a cog in the machine. The sort who never shouted, never demanded, just did what was needed. Not a hero, not a victim. Just a man. Seventeen years of marriage, two kids, a mortgage, holidays at his in-laws’. Then—the crack. Everything fell apart. His wife left. Said she was suffocating. Said he was like a ghost—there, but not alive. She left without a row, but with such finality that no questions remained.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t beg. Just drove to the countryside and sat in his car till dawn, listening to the wind howl through the trees. He returned. Grew quieter. Lived by habit: work, bills, weekends with the kids, birthdays, cinema tickets. Everything normal. Yet inside—emptiness, like an abandoned house.
With each day, something tightened in his chest. Like a steel band, cinched deeper. First a twinge, then a crush, then pain. Sometimes he’d catch himself struggling to breathe, as if the air had turned thick.
Now he walked—like that dog. Stopped. Couldn’t go on. Not from pain or fear, but futility. The same road, the same faces, the same silence at night. He didn’t want change—just a pause, to stop being himself for a moment.
In the park, he sank onto a bench. The air smelled of wet earth, pine needles, something faintly familiar—childhood, maybe, or winter. A lad passed by, blasting a song about heartbreak from a speaker—raspy but oddly comforting. An elderly couple shuffled past, the woman steadying her husband, their steps so full of quiet affection that James looked away.
He watched them and thought, *Everyone has someone. Something. I’ve got nothing. And it doesn’t even hurt. Like there was never anything at all.* The thoughts came evenly, without bitterness, like a verdict long accepted.
“Excuse me?” A voice broke through. “D’you have a phone? Mine’s dead, need to call me sister.”
A girl of about eleven stood before him. Her coat was stained, freckles dusting her cheeks, a scuffed backpack in hand.
“Course.” James handed over his phone.
She stepped aside, spoke quickly into it, then returned. “Ta. Why’re you sittin’ here alone?”
“Just resting,” he said, unsure why he bothered explaining.
“Right. Only, you look… sad. Our neighbour sits like that when his bird from Leeds won’t text him. Proper loves her, but won’t say. Who’re you in love with?”
James stilled. The question struck like lightning—sudden, precise. His chest clenched, as if his heart remembered it could still feel.
“No one. Why’re you out alone?”
“I’m not. Me nan’s over there, havin’ a kip. Went for bread. Cheers. Don’t be sad, yeah? Mum says if someone’s quiet, they’re sortin’ themselves out. You sortin’?”
He nodded, almost without meaning to.
“Yeah.”
“Well, then you’ll be right. Laters!”
She dashed off, light as a spark, her backpack bouncing like a tiny beacon. James stayed. And suddenly, his chest felt fractionally lighter. As if something had shifted—not everything, but something vital, like a gear clicking into place.
He stood. Stretched. Drew a deeper breath than usual. And walked—not hurriedly, but steadier, as if his steps had found purpose. The wind still clawed at his collar, but no longer felt like an enemy.
Nothing monumental had happened. No revelations, no miracles. Just a day. Just a dog. Just a girl. Life, ordinary as ever. But sometimes, that’s enough to make you want to keep going.
