That Very Day
It all began when Emily overslept. Not by half an hour—no, she blinked awake at quarter to ten, when ordinarily she’d be standing at the bus stop by eight, thermos in hand, eyes still heavy with sleep. Her heart plummeted, as if the scaffolding of her routine had been yanked from beneath her. Her phone was dead—the charger had slipped from the socket overnight, of course. The tap ran dry: scheduled maintenance, which she’d forgotten entirely. In the kitchen, a crack, a clatter—her favourite mug, the one that read *Keep Going*, in pieces on the floor. Only shards and silence remained.
The thick, suffocating silence that makes your ears ring. When the house doesn’t hum but exhales. And you exhale too—not with relief, but because you can’t hold it in any longer.
Naturally, Emily was late. She burst into the office, hair tangled, no makeup, her coat sleeve smudged with something unidentifiable. Her colleagues glanced up—someone snorted, someone else averted their eyes, pretending to be busy. Her manager sighed with an expression that suggested Emily had personally let down the entire universe. And so the day unravelled, as if someone had tugged a loose thread and everything came apart.
Emily didn’t explain or complain. She just sat at her desk and opened the right folder. But inside, she itched with helplessness, like skin beneath a too-thin blouse—necessary, yet unbearable. The world seemed to whisper: *It shouldn’t be like this. You know that.*
After lunch, the school called—her son had clashed with a teacher. Threats of meetings, demands for explanations. Then a text from the bank: account overdrawn, last payment declined. And finally, a photo from the neighbour: *Is this yours?* A stain on the ceiling, like a bruise slowly spreading across the body of her life.
By evening, Emily sat on the cold steps outside the flats. Her tights clung to her legs, fingers numb. Shoulders slumped, bag gaping open like an exhausted soul. The day hadn’t just gone wrong—it had tested her, pressing its thumb into every bruise.
Then a girl stopped beside her. Small, thin, with an oversized backpack and glasses crooked on her nose.
“Miss, are you really sad?”
Emily looked up. She meant to brush it off, stay silent—but couldn’t. The question was honest. Simple. No judgement.
“Yeah,” she admitted.
The girl sat down, dug into her bag, and pulled out an apple—slightly bruised but clean. 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 hint of tart. The smell of early September, school assemblies. Something in her chest loosened—not pain, just noise. It quietened.
“Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Alice. What’s yours?”
“Emily.”
“Don’t worry, Emily. It’ll get better. It’s just not very good right now.”
Emily nodded. Almost smiled.
Alice stood, adjusted her backpack, and walked away. Didn’t look back. Moved fast, like she knew she’d done what was needed. Emily watched her go. Somewhere inside, a tiny flame flickered to life.
She got up. Went back inside. Took off her coat. Called her son—not to scold, just to ask how he was. Said *sorry*, though she wasn’t sure for what. Just wanted warmth to be the first thing spoken.
Then she filled the cat’s bowl. Swept the floor. Gathered the mug shards. Simple motions, but for the first time that day—done with purpose.
The next morning, Emily bought a new mug. Red. Bright as a promise. And a wind-up alarm clock, its soft ticking a whisper: *You’re alive. Time’s moving—and so are you.*
Sometimes everything falls apart quietly, along the seams. And then—it stitches itself back together. Not the same hands, not the same pieces. But it does. With an apple. With a stranger’s voice. With the moment you finally decide: *Enough. Time to breathe.*
