Yesterday morning Emily turned her phone up to maximum volume, just in case. Deep down she knew he wouldnt write. The feeling was like the foreboding of rainslow, inevitable, as if the air thickened before a storm. Still she hit the speaker. Hope is like an old scar: it aches but wont let go. Emily pulled her hair into a careless bun, with just enough care to look natural yet pretty. She slipped on her darkgreen coatthe one he once said made her look like an autumn forest. She hadnt worn it since, but today she dug it out of the wardrobe. She painted her lips crimson, too bright for a morning stroll to the chemist and the bakery.
The chemist was noisy. Someone coughed hoarsely in a corner, another argued over the price of medication, a third stood silently shifting weight from foot to foot. The smell of herbs and something sharp, clinical, filled the air. Emily grabbed the vitamins he had recommended three years ago, back when they still shared coffee at sunrise. She held the packet, reading the tiny print. Expiry: next autumn. As if even the box counted down its own remaining months.
The bakery was as always: a bloke with a tattoo on his wrist behind the counter, the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon, a tinny tune from a battered speaker. Emily bought a raspberry croissantthe very one he once called the taste of morning with a grin, brushing crumbs from his chin. She took two. One for tea at home, like the old days when everything seemed simpler. The other just because. To keep. Like a small bite of the past you can slip into your pocket.
When I got home I froze. The flat was silentheavy, like dust settled on the old books. The air seemed still, as if it were afraid to move. The phone lay on the windowsill, screen face down, as if ashamed of my gaze. No messages. No calls. It felt as though the world had walked past without noticing me. I felt like a shadow melting into the grey morning light.
I set the kettle on, slipped off the coat slowly, as if afraid to disturb the hush. I placed my boots by the door, straightened the collar on the coat rack. I switched on the old radio the announcer talked about traffic jams, then a snowstorm, then an exhibition at the local museum. Everything came through muffled, like underwater. I took a sip of teascalding, burning, but I swallowed without grimacing. I moved to the window, pressed my forehead against the cold glass.
Outside, snow fellfine, prickly, gathering on umbrellas, scarves, the pavement, then vanishing again. A young dad in the park adjusted his sons hat gently, the kind of care that comes with years. Elderly couples shuffled along, leaning on each other as if their hands had fused over decades. Some hurried across the icy pavement, some laughed glued to their phones, some lingered before a shop window decked with Christmas lights. Life churnednoisy, vibrant, indifferent. It passed me by like a train that left while I stood on the platform, too hesitant to jump.
He didnt write.
But I swept the floor with a broom, though there was hardly any dust. I called my aunt listened to her tales about the cottage, the neighbour, a new pie recipe. I watered the old cactus, checking carefully that it hadnt turned yellow. I booked an appointment with the doctora small thing I had been putting off for months. I checked the billseverything paid, then ticked it off in my diary. I laundered the blanket, adding a bit more fabric softener so the house smelled warm and livedin.
In the evening I switched on the lights in every room. Not because I feared the dark, but because the house felt aliveits windows glowing, reflecting off the wet pavement, as if whispering: someone is here. Someone is alive.
I looked at my reflection in the glass and thought: He didnt write. But I am here. Not an excuse, not a challenge, just a quiet truth. Like a candle you light not for anyone else but yourself. To remember: you are still present.
Lesson: even when others remain silent, you must keep your own light burning.
