Just Someone Nearby
That summer, the little bench in St. James’s Park had been alive—school kids licking ice cream, laughing, arguing over films and games. In autumn, builders in dusty hi-vis jackets would stop by, wolfing down sandwiches, chatting about who’d quit, who’d 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, hidden from everything.
The wind tore the last brittle leaves from the trees, howled in her ears, snaked beneath her coat. But she didn’t move. Just sat, staring at the pavement, as if the answer lay beneath the layers of grit and frost. Some meaning. Or at least a pause.
Beside her, a crinkled yoghurt pot. Breakfast, swallowed without tasting, without want. The doctor’s appointment was in forty minutes. She didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to go home either. There was nowhere to go. She just wanted to sit. No touch, no questions, no eyes on her.
Yesterday, the clinic had said, “Nothing serious. Stress. Burnout. You need rest.” The doctor spoke with practised detachment. The nurse rustled papers. Eleanor nodded. Like always. Like at home, like at work. Then she’d left, with nowhere to go. She didn’t feel like she was *in* life anymore. Just outside it. As if she were on the other side of glass—seeing, but untouchable.
Every morning, she woke with a lump in her throat and the urge to vanish. Not die. Just—disappear. Fade into the crowd, the Tube, the long school corridors. No more, “Where were you?” “Why didn’t you call?” “You’re so quiet lately.”
At home, a teenage son. Conversations boiled down to, “Eaten?” “Yeah.” Her husband—almost silent. The quiet between them had grown into a wall. Thick, grey, unyielding. Not even a glance slipped through. They didn’t argue. Just… stopped. As if love had worn out, leaving nothing but space.
Work—accounting at a primary school. No one bothered her. That should’ve been a relief. But in the stillness, she wanted to scream. Loud. Until her voice cracked. Until it hurt.
Someone sat down beside her. An old man. Didn’t ask. Just settled in. A crumpled puffer jacket, a knitted beanie. In his hands, a battered newspaper, creased like gloves after winter. He unfolded it with a grumble, wrestling the wind. Cleared his throat.
“Bitter out. Straight to the bones.”
Eleanor gave a small nod. Not looking. The cold *was* biting—but that wasn’t the point.
A few minutes passed.
“You seem…” He paused. “Like you’re not really here.”
She huffed—first time in days.
“I *am* here. Just… no one to talk to.”
“Aye,” he murmured. “Know that feeling. After my wife—same. Everything’s there, but no one’s *there*. Then… dunno. Maybe got used to the dog. Maybe my soul dried up. Or learned to talk to myself. Easier on a bench.”
Eleanor turned her head.
“How long’s it been?”
“Eight years. Counted at first. Then stopped. Only remember her birthday now. Not mine.”
She studied him. Ordinary face. Wrinkles at the eyes. A look—warm. Unassuming. Alive. Like an old blanket—plain, but familiar.
“You waiting for someone?”
He smiled faintly.
“No one. The walls at home—they press. Here… there’s air. People walking. Someone walking a terrier. Someone munching crisps. Sometimes someone sits. We chat. Or don’t. That’s talking too, if you do silence right.”
They fell quiet. But not heavy. Just… near. Ten minutes passed without moving. Trees creaked, a jogger rushed past, a dog barked in the distance. And Eleanor felt it—something stirring inside. Not pain. Not relief. Just… life. A tiny crack, invisible till you touched it. Now—there.
“Just thought,” she said softly, “maybe you don’t need a doctor. Just someone. Anyone who’ll sit. Won’t poke. Won’t demand answers. Just… be.”
The old man said nothing. Just laid the paper on his knees. Smoothed it with his palm, slow. Like soothing. His silence wasn’t indifference—it was acceptance.
She never made it to the appointment. Just sat. Till the bus came. Then he stood, tipped his head slightly, and walked off. Didn’t look back. Slow, slightly stooped. And she stayed.
But not the same.
Sometimes all you need is someone. Not close. Not family. Not forever. Just someone who’ll sit beside you—and stop you vanishing into your own silence. Who’ll notice. Not judge. Ask no whys. Just be.
Sometimes—that’s enough.
