Quiet, As It Is
When Emily said, “I’m tired of being quiet,” she didn’t shout. She just put her fork down, glanced out the window, and said it—calmly, almost casually. Like someone might say, “Time to take out the rubbish” or “Forgot to buy milk.” No drama, but with a weight that sucked all the sound from the room, as if someone had hit mute.
James looked up from his phone but didn’t quite catch on at first. He’d heard her voice, but the meaning lagged, like sound traveling underwater. He stared at her, then back at his screen—as if there were a pane of frosted glass between them, blurring everything beyond recognition.
“What d’you mean?”
“Us. The way we live. Quiet.”
He didn’t reply. Looked at his phone again. The thought flickered: *Here we go again.* Except there hadn’t been a “again.” She’d been quiet for ages. Too long. And he knew it, but pretended not to notice. Easier that way. No arguments. No awkward pauses. Except now, the pause had stretched into something permanent.
They’d been together seven years. There’d been holidays, rows, ridiculous films, mates popping round, that time the boiler broke in the dead of winter. They’d bickered over nonsense, made up over midnight toast, split the last biscuit, finished each other’s silly sentences. Then—like someone slowly turning down the volume. Not all at once. Bit by bit. First, they stopped listening. Then, they stopped saying much at all. The daily texts faded. The “how was your day?” vanished. Then it was just coexisting. A tidy kitchen, the kettle always on, bills left on the counter. Tasteless. Uneventful. No “we.”
“I don’t hear myself anymore, James,” she said, still staring out the window. “It’s like I’m not even here.”
He wanted to say something important. That he *did* hear her. That it wasn’t like that. That he was just knackered, just swamped. That he loved her, just forgot how to say it. But the words wouldn’t come. Not because he didn’t love her—but because he’d gone so long without speaking them aloud, he’d forgotten the sound of his own voice.
Emily stood, slid her mug into the sink. Then she grabbed her coat, her keys. Walked out. He didn’t stop her. Wasn’t even sure he *should.* And that was the worst part. Not her steps toward the door, not the click of the lock—but how effortless it all felt. No shouting. No “stay.” Too easy, like nothing of value was being lost.
She walked down the street, the frost underfoot crisping like a film effect. People hurried past, eyes glued to their own orbits. Emily paused at a zebra crossing and, for the first time in ages, felt *placed.* Not in the “right place” sense—just *here,* now. Not in the past, not in the what-ifs. A strange, quiet calm, as if her body had finally caught up with her soul.
That evening, she didn’t go to her best mate’s or her mum’s. Just wandered, turning wherever her feet fancied. Ended up at the little café she and James used to haunt. Bought a cinnamon bun. Sat by the window, still in her coat. The air smelled of sugar, vanilla, something half-remembered. And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel the need to dissect, explain, or justify. Just wanted to *be* in that evening. For herself. No role. No audience.
James texted two days later. No grand statement. Just: *You okay?* Casual, like habit rather than heartache. 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 realised she *could* stop waiting.
Two weeks passed. Then a month. She rented a flat on the outskirts, with big windows and a view of the car park where seagulls squabbled at dawn. Started morning walks—not because she *should,* but because her legs begged for 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 damp on the bus. Her way of staying in the moment, where everything felt new, unscripted, James-less.
Sometimes she thought of him. Not angrily. Not sadly. Just… as someone she’d once breathed in sync with. Someone who’d laughed at the same rubbish telly, who’d known her silences. Then they’d each drifted to their own screens. What they’d been. What they’d become. What had ended. No fireworks. No grand finale. No last words. Just… how things go. Like a song fading from a room when no one hits *repeat.* Quiet, as it is.
Sometimes, it’s not about “come back,” “understand,” or “hear me.” Sometimes, it’s about stopping the wait for someone else to speak for you. And starting to speak yourself. Even clumsily. Even late. But aloud. To hear yourself again. To *be.*
