One Pan for Two
Sometimes people stop arguing. And it’s not about making up anymore. It’s about the end. James and Emily had lived together for twenty years. Not a lifetime, but not just a couple of years either. First came love, then children, then endless responsibilities. And then—weariness. Of themselves, and of each other.
At first, they still tried. They fought, made up, slammed doors, attempted to understand, to forgive, to return. But then came the silence. Heavy, impenetrable. They stopped sharing a bed. Moved into separate rooms. Not enemies, but no longer family. Just two people, accidentally trapped in the same house. And the worst part—they started eating separately. He had his own meals. She had hers. His shelves, her plates. Separate lives. That was the end. The kind you don’t announce.
No one spoke of divorce. What was the point? Everything was clear already. James had met a woman at a seaside retreat. He started going alone, without Emily. The woman, Charlotte, was kind, steady, patient. She wrote him letters, asked how he was, shared recipes. Emily hadn’t met anyone. Her loneliness was silent and tight, like a knot. But she didn’t complain. She just lived. As if waiting for it to pass.
The morning was ordinary. The kitchen bathed in yellow light, the smell of cheap butter in the air. Emily stood by the stove. On it—a tiny frying pan. A single egg. Not an omelette. Not breakfast for two. Just—an egg. Small, like the pan itself. Small, like Emily. Her dressing gown was old, her hair stuck in an awkward perm. She held the spatula and didn’t even look at the pan. Just stood there.
James walked into the kitchen. Silently. Filled the kettle, meant to pour himself tea. Everything inside him was already decided. He’d leave. Soon. Just needed to pack. But then she turned. Looked at him with such defenceless guilt that he nearly stumbled.
“D’you want the egg?” she asked quietly, holding out the tiny pan.
It hit him like a wall. He remembered everything. Their first flat. One mattress. One mug. One fork between them. The same girl in a dressing gown—only then, she was laughing, bold, with a fringe like a pony’s. She’d wink and say, “Even the egg’s ours to share.”
He set the pan down. Held her. Pulled her close like he had the first time. And started talking. Haltingly, stupidly. That he’d been a fool. That he’d lost himself. That he’d forgotten she was his. That all the greyness had actually mattered. Maybe he cried. She wouldn’t know—she was small, and he was tall.
On the stove, the egg still sat. The yolk—like a golden button. Like a sign. Like salvation.
Then he stayed. They started eating together again. Sat in silence in the evenings. And then, slowly, began to talk. Carefully. And not right away—but eventually, they laughed again.
Love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it lives in silence. In one pan. In a question: “D’you want the egg?” Because if someone offers—you’re still needed.
