One of those days when it doesn’t hurt—just aches.
At the bus stop near the old market square in Leeds stood a woman. She smoked, shielding the flame from the gusty wind with her palm, while her other arm clutched a faded canvas bag. It sagged heavily at the bottom—as if stuffed not with belongings but with burdens. She hovered at the edge of the pavement, guarding that narrow strip of ground like the last solid thing in a world gone blurry and unsteady.
Her name was Evelyn. She was forty-eight. She looked younger—her face narrow with sharp cheekbones, her hair twisted carelessly into a knot, her eyes pale but ringed beneath with that blue tint that comes not from sleeplessness but from the slow absence of things: attention, warmth, anything resembling wonder.
Inside, she wasn’t broken, just worn down—tired of the sameness, the screech of the alarm clock, the hollow words like “fine” and “same as always” that she used to cover the truth. Tired of evenings ending in silence, in no one asking, no shoulder to lean against. Tired of piecing herself together each morning just to get through another day.
She’d woken at seven. The house creaked—her son, Oliver, was leaving for college. He tossed a casual “morning” over his shoulder and was gone before she could even step into the kitchen. She lay there a moment longer, staring at the cracked ceiling, then pushed herself up.
In the mirror: a face. No anger, no joy, not even weariness. Just a face. She drank her coffee standing, braced against the counter, pulled on her coat, grabbed the bag, and left. The day didn’t begin—it just carried on from the one before.
Today, she needed to go into town—pick up paperwork, stop by the clinic, and if she was lucky, find Oliver a new jacket. The pavement was slick with rain. People rushed past, and she walked among them, holding the bag to her chest like a shield. She bought two pasties—ate one, wrapped the other in a napkin for the man who usually sat by the underpass. He wasn’t there today. She left the pasty on the bench anyway. Just in case.
At the clinic, an older woman in the waiting room chattered about blood pressure, her garden, and how the doctor really ought to have more space. Evelyn sat against the wall, scrolling through news on her phone—explosions, deaths, glossy smiles of people whose lives bore no resemblance to hers. She clicked it off. Not because she was upset. Just because none of it mattered.
The doctor murmured something about “stress” and “needing rest.” She nodded, pretending to listen. But all she could think was: where could she go just to lie down and not think? Not be strong, not smile, not hold herself together. Just vanish for a day.
Outside, the air had turned biting. The wind crept under her collar. She bought a paper cup of coffee, sipping it slowly like it was the last warmth left in the world, and sat on a bench in the park. The bag pressed against her leg, her breath fogging her scarf.
A man sat down beside her. Mid-fifties, maybe. Wrinkles at his eyes, shoulders slumped. Without looking at her, he said, quietly:
“Cold out. Still don’t want to go home.”
She wasn’t even surprised. It was as if he’d spoken her thoughts aloud. They talked—about work, about food, about how life had twisted in ways they hadn’t expected. He was a night guard at a supermarket. His wife had gone to stay with their daughter and likely wouldn’t return. The letters came less often now. He didn’t open them anymore.
She worked at the post office. Lived with her mother, who forgot names, dates, even her own reflection. Some nights, she wandered the house searching for Evelyn’s father, dead five years. They spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather, not the weight they carried.
A silence. Sips of coffee. The wind tugging at his coat. Then he stood and, almost shyly, said:
“You mind if I remember you?”
“Don’t get me mixed up with someone else.”
He smiled—the first time.
“Won’t forget. Just nice to know someone’s real. Not on a screen. Not in some telly show. Just… here.”
He walked away without looking back. She watched until the wind swallowed him.
That evening, Oliver came home. She reheated supper, asked about his day. He shrugged, thumbing through his phone. Then—glanced up.
“How was yours?”
The fork stilled in her hand. Something flickered inside her at those four words. She answered slowly.
“Just a day. One of many.”
He nodded. Didn’t turn away right after. It wasn’t much. But in her world, where days blurred together like carbon copies—even that mattered.
Later, lying in the dark, she wondered if someone, somewhere, remembered that bench, the coffee, the quiet where kindness had found space between two strangers.
That thought was enough. Not a miracle. Just an anchor. Something to make rising tomorrow bearable—to step out into another day.
