The morning was unnervingly still. The hallway smelled, as always, of stale air—cat food, old plastic, and something sickly sweet, like rotting tangerine peels or cheap perfume. Emily pressed her forehead against the cold doorframe and froze, listening as the balcony door in the next flat slammed shut for the third time that week. It wasn’t just the wind. It was sharp, deliberate—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—just exhaustion. She pulled on her battered grey trainers, the ones with the worn-down heels—her “armour.” In them, she was nearly invisible, but at least she held herself together. Or pretended to. Inside, everything had long since fallen apart.
The neighbour from the fourth floor—the one with the brick-dust moustache and the same blue tracksuit—slipped past like a shadow. Once, he’d stopped her in the stairwell with, *”Lonely, isn’t it, being on your own?”* Now, his voice scraped like rusted nails under her skin.
The bus was late, as usual. Inside, it reeked of damp coats, lager, and stale resignation. Emily gripped the handrail until her knuckles whitened, staring through the grimy window. Her reflection—a pale face, shadows under her eyes, a grey coat slipping off one shoulder—looked like a life halfway undone. Her mother would have said, *”You’re like a ghost.”* But her mother didn’t know what it was like to live when the days didn’t end, just bled into one thick, grey mass with no beginning or end.
The office was empty. Almost everyone had gone remote. Only the ones like her stayed—the ones for whom home was worse than this lifeless corridor. Here, at least, there were no hissed accusations, no plates smashing against walls, no eyes drilling into her. Here, it was safe. Cold. Empty. But safe.
At one o’clock, she stepped into the business centre’s courtyard. She didn’t smoke. She just stood there. The security guard walked past, pretending not to see her—as always. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Her mother.
*”Mum, I’m at work.”*
*”You’re alone again. Maybe go somewhere? Take a walk, at least.”*
*”I’ve got things to do.”*
*”Emily, love, this isn’t living. You’re just existing. At thirty-two—”*
*”Bye, Mum.”*
She ended the call. Not angrily. Just too tired to explain.
On the way back, she stopped at the shop. Bought soft cheese, rolls, peppermint tea. At the till, an elderly man smiled and motioned for her to go ahead.
*”Thank you,”* she said, surprised at how smooth, how steady it sounded.
At home, it was already dark, though evening hadn’t quite fallen. Emily turned on not the overhead light but the old string of fairy lights—the ones they’d hung up that one Christmas. Back then, everything had felt different. Simple. Bright. Warm. They’d laughed, eaten burnt toast, played music from a phone. Now—she was alone.
She sat on the floor, back against the wall. The fridge hummed softly, like proof the flat was still alive. She didn’t flinch. Just breathed. The sounds weren’t enemies anymore. They were witnesses.
She picked up her phone. Opened the folder labelled *”Voice.”* Fifteen files. He’d said, *”I’m with you, you’re the only one,”* and *”We’ll make it,”* and *”You’re special.”* And the last one—static, shouting, a dull thud—a door? A fist? A heart?
Emily hit *delete.* Her hand didn’t shake.
She stood. Opened the window. Reached for the air—dirty, autumnal, real. On the balcony, the door slammed again. She smiled.
*”Let it,”* she whispered. *”Let it slam.”*
She made the tea. Set the rolls on a white plate. Sat at the table. Opened her laptop to a blank page and typed the first line:
*”That day, I wasn’t afraid of being alone—I just felt alive for the first time.”*
And it was enough. Enough to make the world—so broken, so crooked—stop feeling like an enemy. Because now, it was hers. Not happy. Not perfect. But hers.
