**Just Someone Nearby**
That bench in the little park on Camden Street used to be lively in the summer—schoolkids licking ice cream, laughing, arguing about films and video games. In autumn, builders in dusty orange hi-vis vests would stop by for a sandwich, swapping stories about who’d quit, who’d got married, who was knackered. Now it was February. Grey, icy, silent. The bench was empty. Except for Eleanor. Wrapped in a scarf like a cocoon, hiding from the world.
The wind ripped the last frozen leaves from the trees, whistled in her ears, crept under her coat. But she didn’t move. Just sat, staring at the pavement. As if beneath the layers of grit and ice lay some answer. Some meaning. Or at least a pause.
Beside her, a crumpled yoghurt pot—breakfast eaten on autopilot, tasteless, joyless. Forty minutes until her doctor’s appointment. She didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to go home either. Truth was, she had nowhere to be. She just wanted to sit. For no one to touch her. Ask. Look.
Yesterday, the clinic had said, *Nothing serious. Stress. Burnout. Just rest.* The doctor spoke with detached professionalism. The nurse rustled paperwork. And Eleanor nodded. Like always. Like at home. Like at work. Then she walked out, with nowhere left to go. She didn’t feel part of life anymore—just outside it. Like she was on the other side of glass, watching but never touching.
Every morning she woke with a lump in her throat and the urge to vanish. Not die. Just disappear. Become invisible in the crowd, on the Tube, in the school’s long corridors. So no one would ask, *Where were you? Why didn’t you call? You’re so quiet lately.*
At home, a teenage son. Conversations boiled down to: *“You eat?” “Yeah.”* Her husband barely spoke, the silence between them thick as a wall. Grey, solid, unbreachable. Not even a glance slipped through. They didn’t argue. They’d just… stopped. As if love had worn out, leaving nothing but empty space.
Work was accounting at a secondary school. No one bothered her. That should’ve been a plus. But in that quiet, she wanted to scream. Loud. Until her voice cracked. Until it hurt.
Someone sat beside her. An old man. Didn’t ask—just settled in. A crumpled coat, a knitted beanie. In his hands, a battered newspaper, creased like winter gloves. He unfolded it, grumbling as if wrestling the wind. Cleared his throat.
*“Proper draft today. Right to the bone.”*
Eleanor gave a slight nod. Not looking. The wind *was* bitter—but that wasn’t the point.
A few minutes passed.
*“You seem… not from here?”* he ventured.
She almost smiled. First time in days. *“I am. Just… no one to talk to.”*
*“Aye,”* he nodded. *“Know the feeling. After my wife passed, same thing. Whole world around me, but no one there. Then it… sorted itself. Dunno if it was the dog, or my heart just dried up. Or maybe I learned to talk to myself. Easier on a bench.”*
Eleanor turned her head. *“How long’s it been?”*
*“Eight years. Counted at first. Stopped after. Only remember her birthday now. Not even mine.”*
She studied him. Ordinary face. Wrinkles by the eyes. A warm, quiet gaze. Like an old blanket—nothing special, but familiar.
*“You waiting for someone?”*
He smiled, just a little. *“Nah. Walls press in at home. Here… there’s air. Folks passing by. Someone walking a cat, someone nibbling crisps. Sometimes a chat. Or just silence. That’s a kind of talk too, if you do it right.”*
They fell quiet. But not empty. Just… there. Ten minutes, neither moved. Trees creaked, a jogger passed, a dog barked in the distance. Then Eleanor felt it—something shifted inside. Not relief. Not pain. Just life. Like a tiny crack you don’t notice till you touch it. Now… there it was.
*“I was just thinking,”* she said softly, *“sometimes you don’t need a doctor. Just someone. Anyone. Who sits. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need explaining. Just… is.”*
The old man said nothing. Just smoothed the newspaper on his lap, slow, like soothing a child. His silence wasn’t indifference—it was acceptance.
She never made it to the appointment. Sat until the bus came. Then he stood, gave a small nod, and walked away. Didn’t look back. Slow, slightly stooped. And she stayed.
But not the same.
Sometimes all you need is someone. Not family. Not forever. Just someone who sits beside you and doesn’t let you vanish into your own silence. Who sees. Doesn’t judge. Doesn’t ask why. Just stays. Nearby.
Sometimes that’s enough.
