That Very Day
It all started with Emily oversleeping. Not just by half an hour—she peeled her eyes open at quarter to ten, when she’d normally be at the bus stop by eight, clutching a travel mug with a bleary-eyed stare. Her stomach dropped like someone had yanked the foundations right out from under her daily routine. Her phone was dead—the charging cable, of course, had slipped loose overnight. The taps ran dry: scheduled maintenance, which she’d naturally forgotten about. Then came the crash from the kitchen—her favourite mug, boldly declaring *”Keep Calm and Carry On,”* now in pieces. All that remained were shards and silence.
That thick, heavy silence that makes your ears ring. When the house doesn’t just creak but exhales. And you exhale too—not from relief, but because you can’t hold it in any longer.
Naturally, Emily was late to work. She stumbled into the office with wild hair, no makeup, and a coffee stain down her sleeve. Colleagues glanced up. Someone snorted. Someone else pretended to be busy. Her manager sighed as if Emily had personally sabotaged the universe—again. And so the day unravelled, like pulling a loose thread until everything comes apart.
She didn’t excuse herself or complain. Just sat down and pulled up the right folder. But inside, she itched with helplessness, like wearing a wool jumper that’s just a bit too scratchy—necessary, but unbearable. The world seemed to whisper: *This isn’t how it’s meant to be. You know that.*
After lunch, the school rang: her son had clashed with his teacher. Threats of meetings, demands for written statements, vague mutterings about *escalations.* Then a text from the bank—her account was overdrawn, last payment declined. And finally, a photo from the neighbour: *”Is this from your flat?”* A damp stain spread across the ceiling like a bruise on the skin of her life.
By evening, Emily sat on the cold steps outside her building. Tights stuck to her legs, fingers numb. Shoulders slumped, handbag gaping open like an exhausted soul. The day hadn’t just gone wrong—it had prodded at her like a finger poking a fresh bruise.
Then a little girl stopped beside her. Small, skinny, with an oversized backpack and glasses fastened wonkily.
*”Miss, are you really sad?”*
Emily looked up. Meant to brush her off, stay quiet—but couldn’t. The question was too simple, too honest. No judgement.
*”Yeah,”* she admitted.
The girl sat down. Dug a slightly dented but clean apple from her bag and held it out with both hands.
*”Mum says if someone’s sad, you share. Even just a little. Even if it’s just an apple.”*
Emily took it. Bit in. Sweet, with a tang. It tasted like September mornings and school assemblies. Something in her chest loosened. Not the pain—just the noise. It quietened.
*”Thanks. What’s your name?”*
*”Lucy. What’s yours?”*
*”Emily.”*
*”Don’t worry, Emily. It’ll get better. It’s just not very good now.”*
Emily nodded. Just faintly, but with the ghost of a smile.
Lucy stood, adjusted her backpack, and left. Didn’t look back. Walked briskly, like she knew she’d done exactly what was needed. Emily watched her go. Somewhere inside, a tiny flame flickered to life.
She stood. Went back inside. Hung up her coat. Phoned her son—not to scold, just to ask how he was. Said *”sorry”* without even knowing why—just wanted to say something kind first.
Then she filled the cat’s bowl. Swept the floor. Bagged up the mug shards. Simple motions, but for the first time that day—done with purpose.
The next morning, Emily bought herself a new mug. Bright red, like a promise. And a wind-up alarm clock—its soft ticking whispering: *”You’re alive. Time’s moving—and so are you.”*
Sometimes everything falls apart quietly, seam by seam. And then—it stitches itself back together. Not the same way, not with the same pieces. But it does. With an apple. With a child’s voice. With the moment you finally decide: *Enough. It’s time to breathe.*
