Quiet as It Is
When Emily said, “I’m tired of keeping 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 to buy milk.” Without dramatics, but in a way that left the room suddenly hollow, as if the sound had been muted.
James looked up from his phone but didn’t register it at first. He heard her voice, but the meaning reached him a beat later, like sound traveling across water. He stared at her, then back at his screen—as if there were glass between them, distorting everything.
“What d’you mean?”
“Us. The way we live. Quiet.”
He didn’t answer. Just flicked his eyes to the screen again. A thought flashed: “Here we go.” Except there was no “here we go.” She’d been silent for ages. Too long. And he knew it, but pretended not to notice. Easier that way. No rows. No awkward pauses. Except now the pause was forever.
They’d been together seven years. There’d been trips, silly fights, terrible films, friends, flat renovations. They’d bickered over nonsense, made up over midnight toast, split cakes down the middle, said stupid things in unison. Then—like someone turned the volume down. Not all at once. Bit by bit. First, they stopped listening. Then stopped saying. Stopped calling each other midday. Then stopped asking, “How was your day?” Then just… existed. Tidy kitchen, kettle on, bills on the counter. Tasteless. Pointless. No “we.”
“I don’t hear myself here, James,” she said, still watching the window. “It’s like I’m not even here.”
He wanted to say something meaningful. That he *does* hear her. That it’s not like that. That he’s just knackered, just busy. 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 properly in so long. He’d unlearned the sound of his own voice.
Emily stood, placed her mug in the sink. Then grabbed her coat. Took her keys. Left. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even know if he should. And that was the worst part. Not her footsteps, not the click of the lock—but how easily it happened. No shouting. No “stay.” Too easy, like nothing important was being lost.
She walked down the street, the frost crunching underfoot like something from a film. People hurried past, eyes straight ahead. Emily paused at a crossing and, for the first time in ages, felt *present*. Not “where she should be,” just—here. Not in the past, not in pretend. A strange, quiet calm, like her body had finally caught up with her soul.
That evening, she didn’t go to a mate’s or her mum’s. Just wandered, turning wherever her feet took her. Stopped at the bakery she and James used to visit. Bought a poppyseed bun. Sat by the window, still in her coat. It smelled of cinnamon, vanilla, and something half-remembered. For once, she didn’t want to dissect, explain, or justify. Just live the evening. For herself. No role. No audience.
James texted two days later. No fuss. Just: “You alright?” Casual, like habit, not longing. She replied: “Getting on.” No full stop. No tone. Just that. He didn’t text again. She didn’t wait. Not because she didn’t care—but because she finally felt it: waiting was optional.
Two weeks passed. Then a month. She rented a flat on the outskirts, with big windows overlooking a car park where gulls screeched at dawn. Started morning walks—not because she “should,” but because her body craved motion. Began jotting three lines a day in a notebook. Not about feelings. Just—what she saw. Who smiled. Where was quiet. The cashier’s chipped nail polish. The smell of rain on pavements. Her way of staying present, where everything felt new, unscripted, James-less.
Sometimes she thought of James. Not angrily. Not wistfully. Just—a person she’d once breathed in sync with. Someone who’d laughed at the same dumb jokes, watched the same rubbish telly. Then they’d each stared at their own screens. What was. What became. What ended. No fireworks. No final scene. No grand speeches. Just how things go. Like a song fading in an empty room when no one hits “repeat.” Quiet as it is.
Sometimes, it’s not “come back,” not “understand me,” not “hear me.” Sometimes, it’s just stopping the wait for someone else to speak for you. And starting to speak yourself. Hesitant at first. Not perfect. But out loud. To hear yourself again. To *be*.
