Quiet as It Is
When Poppy said, “I’m tired of staying quiet,” she didn’t shout. She just put her fork down, glanced out the window, and said it—calmly, like she might say, “We’re out of tea” or “I forgot to pay the gas bill.” No drama, but the room went dead silent, like someone had hit mute.
Oliver looked up from his phone but didn’t process it straight away. He heard her voice, but the meaning took a second to land, like sound traveling across a lake. He stared at her, then back at his screen—as if there were glass between them, blurring everything.
“What d’you mean?”
“Us. The way we live. Like ghosts.”
He didn’t answer. Just glanced at his phone again. The thought flickered: *Here we go.* Except there’d been no “here we go.” She’d been quiet for ages. Too long. And he knew it, but pretended not to notice. Easier that way. No rows. No awkward pauses. Only now the pause had stretched into forever.
They’d been together seven years. Had it all: weekends in Cornwall, stupid fights over takeaway orders, binge-watching telly, redecorating the flat. They’d bickered over nothing, made up at 2 a.m. over toast, shared a single dessert, finished each other’s jokes. Then—like someone turned the volume down. Not all at once. Bit by bit. First, they stopped listening. Then stopped bothering to say much at all. The midday texts faded. Then the “how was your day?” vanished. Then they just… existed. Tidy kitchen, kettle on, bills on the counter. No flavour. No reason. No “we.”
“I don’t feel like I’m here anymore, Ol.” She was still staring out the window. “Like I’ve vanished.”
He wanted to say something big. That he heard her. That it wasn’t like that. That he was just knackered, just stuck in his head. That he loved her, just forgot how to say it. But the words didn’t come. Not because he didn’t love her—but because he hadn’t spoken them aloud in so long, he’d forgotten how they sounded.
Poppy stood up, rinsed her mug in the sink. Put on her coat. Picked up her keys. Walked out. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even know if he should. And that was the worst bit. Not her footsteps, not the click of the latch—but how easy it was. No shouting. No “stay.” Too easy, like nothing important was slipping away.
She walked down the street, pavement crunching underfoot like something from a film. People rushed past, eyes glued to their phones. At the crossing, she stopped—and for the first time in years, felt exactly where she was. Not “where she belonged,” just… *here*. Not in the past. Not in the could’ve-beens. A weird, quiet calm, like her body had finally caught up with her soul.
That night, she didn’t go to her mum’s or crash at her mate Emma’s. Just wandered, turning left or right on a whim. Ended up at the little bakery she and Oliver used to go to on Sundays. Bought a cinnamon bun. Sat by the window, still in her coat. Smelled sugar, yeast, something warm and half-forgotten. And for the first time in years, she didn’t want to dissect it, explain it, fix it. Just wanted to live the evening. For herself. No script. No audience.
Oliver texted two days later. No fuss. Just: *You alright?* Casual, like habit, not heartache. She replied: *Getting by.* No full stop. No emojis. 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 realised: she didn’t *have* to.
Two weeks passed. Then a month. She rented a flat on the outskirts, big windows overlooking a car park where seagulls screeched at dawn. Started morning walks—not because she *should*, but because her legs begged for movement. Took up scribbling 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. How the bus smelled of wet wool. Her way of staying *here*, where everything was new, unburdened by habit, by Oliver.
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 dumb memes, who’d known her coffee order by heart. Then they’d each drifted to their own screens. What they were. What they became. How it ended. No fireworks. No grand speech. Just… how things go. Like a song fading out when no one hits replay. Quiet as it is.
Sometimes what you need isn’t “come back,” “understand me,” “listen.” Sometimes it’s just… stopping the wait for someone else to speak for you. And starting to say it yourself. Even shaky. Even clumsy. But out loud. To hear yourself again. To be.
