Quiet as It Is
When Emily said, “I’m tired of being quiet,” she didn’t shout. She just set her fork down, glanced out the window, and said it—calmly, almost casually. Like someone might say, “Time to take the bins out,” or “Forgot the milk.” No drama, but the room went mute anyway, as if someone had hit the mute button on the world.
James looked up from his phone, but it took a moment to register. He heard her voice, but the meaning trickled in late, like sound through thick glass. He stared at her, then back at the screen—as if there were a pane between them, smudged beyond clarity.
“What do you mean?”
“Us. How we live. Quiet.”
He didn’t answer. Looked at his phone again. The thought flickered: *Here we go.* Except there was no “here we go.” She’d been silent for ages. Forever, really. He knew it but pretended not to notice. Easier that way. No fights. No awkward pauses. Except now the pause was permanent.
They’d lived together seven years. There’d been holidays, rows, stupid telly shows, mates crashing over, fixing up the flat. They’d bickered over nothing, made up by the kettle at midnight, shared custard creams, finished each other’s daft jokes. Then—like a radio left on low—the sound faded. Not all at once. Bit by bit. First, they stopped listening. Then they stopped saying. Calls during the day vanished. Then “how was your day?” Then just living. Clean counters, the hum of the boiler, bills stacked neat. No flavour. No reason. No “we.”
“I don’t hear myself here, James.” She was still looking out the window. “It’s like I’m not even here.”
He wanted to say something vital. That he *does* hear her. That it’s not like that. That he’s just knackered, just stretched thin. That he loves her, just forgot how to say it. But the words wouldn’t come. Not because he didn’t love her—but because he hadn’t spoken aloud in so long, he’d gone deaf to his own voice.
Emily stood, dropped her mug in the sink. Pulled on her jacket. Took her keys. Left. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even know if he should. And that was the worst of it. Not her steps to the door, not the latch clicking shut—but how *easy* it was. No shouting. No “stay.” Too easy, like losing nothing at all.
She walked down the street, the frost under her feet crunching like a film set. People hurried past, eyes locked ahead. At the crossing, Emily stopped and—for the first time in years—felt *placed.* Not “where she should be,” but just *here.* Not in the past, not in some might’ve-been. A strange, quiet peace, as if her body finally caught up with her soul.
That night, she didn’t go to her sister’s or her mum’s. Just wandered, turning where her feet took her. Ended up in that bakery she and James used to visit. Bought a sultana scone. Sat at the window table, coat still on. Smelled cinnamon, sugar, something half-remembered. And for the first time in ages, she didn’t want to unpack it, explain it, fix it. Just wanted to *be* in the evening. For herself. No script. No audience.
James texted two days later. No fanfare. Just: *You okay?* Like it was nothing, like it wasn’t loneliness but routine. She replied: *Getting on.* No full stop. No fuss. Just that. He didn’t text again. She didn’t wait. Not because she didn’t want to—but because, for the first time, she *could* not wait.
Two weeks passed. Then a month. She rented a flat on the edge of town, big windows overlooking a car park where gulls screeched at dawn. Started morning walks—not because she should, but because her legs craved motion. Began jotting three lines a day in a notebook. Not about feelings. Just—what she saw. Who smiled. Where it was quiet. The cashier’s chipped nail polish. The smell of rain on pavements. Her way of staying *in* the moment, where everything was new, unlearned, without James.
Sometimes she thought of him. Not angrily. Not wistfully. Just—as someone she’d once breathed in sync with. Someone who’d laughed at the same silly adverts, who’d known her silences. Then they’d each stared at separate screens. Who they were. What they became. What ended. No fireworks. No final scene. No last words. Just how things go. Like a song left playing till it fades out. Quiet as it is.
Sometimes all you need isn’t “come back,” or “understand,” or “listen.” Sometimes all you need is to stop waiting for someone to speak for you. And start speaking yourself. Even shaky. Even small. But out loud. To hear yourself again. To *be.*
