The morning was eerily silent. The hallway, as always, smelled of stale air—cat food, old plastic, and something faintly sweet, like rotting tangerine peel or cheap perfume. Emily pressed her forehead against the cold doorframe and froze, listening as the balcony door next door slammed shut again. The third time this week. A sharp, jittery sound—not just the wind. It was like a shout, an echo of someone else’s argument, as if the wall between their lives had grown too thin.
She sniffed. Not from the cold—from exhaustion. She tugged on her scuffed trainers, the grey ones worn down at the heels—her “armour.” In them, she was almost invisible, but together. Whole. Even if everything inside her had long since come undone.
The neighbour from the fourth floor—the one with the brick-dust moustache and the same faded blue tracksuit—slipped past like a shadow. Once, he’d stopped her in the stairwell with, “Bit lonely, ain’t it, being on your own?” His voice had scraped at her ever since, like a rusted nail under the fingernail.
The bus was late, as usual. Inside, it reeked of damp coats, beer, and sour resignation. Emily gripped the handrail until her knuckles whitened and stared through the grimy window. Her reflection—a pale face, a shadow under her eye, a grey coat slipping off one shoulder. As if nothing about her fit quite right. Her mum would’ve said, “You look like a ghost.” But her mum didn’t know what it was like to live when days didn’t end—just bled into one thick, grey sludge, impossible to untangle.
The office was empty. Almost everyone had gone remote. Only the ones like her remained—the ones for whom home was worse than this dead corridor. Here, at least, there were no accusations, no plates hurled at walls, no stares that bored right through her. Here was safe. Cold. Empty. But safe.
At one, she stepped into the business centre courtyard. She didn’t smoke. Just stood. The security guard walked past, pretending not to notice, as always. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Mum.
“Mum, I’m at work.”
“You’re alone again. Might do you good to go out. Even just for a walk.”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Emily, love, this isn’t living. You’re just existing. At thirty-two…”
“Bye, Mum.”
She hung up. Not angrily. Just too tired to explain.
On the way back, she stopped at the shop. Bought soft cheese, buns, peppermint tea. At the till—an older man. He smiled and wordlessly let her go ahead.
“Thanks,” she said. And surprised herself—how light it sounded.
Home was already dark, though evening hadn’t settled. She flicked on not the overhead light but the old string of fairy lights—the ones hung up for Christmas that one winter when everything had felt different. Simple. Bright. Warm. They’d laughed, eaten burnt toast, played music from a phone. Now—just her.
She sat on the floor. Leaned against the wall. The fridge clicked, a quiet reminder the flat was still alive. She didn’t flinch. Just exhaled. The noises weren’t enemies anymore. They were witnesses.
She picked up her phone. Opened the folder labelled “Voice.” Fifteen files. Him saying, “I’m here, you’re the only one,” “We’ll make it,” “You’re special.” The last file—shouting, curses, a dull thud—a door? A fist? A heart?
Emily pressed delete. Her hand didn’t shake.
She stood. Opened the window. Reached for the air—dirty, autumnal, real. The balcony door slammed again. She smiled.
“Let it,” she whispered.
She made tea. Arranged the buns on a white plate. Sat at the table. Opened her laptop. A blank page. The first line:
“That day, I wasn’t afraid of being alone—I felt alive for the first time.”
And it was enough. The world, cracked and crooked as it was, no longer felt hostile.
Because now—it was hers. Not happy. Not perfect.
But hers.
