One of those days when nothing aches—just throbs dully.
At the bus stop near the old city market in Sheffield stood a woman. She shielded the flame of her cigarette from the biting wind with one hand while clutching a worn canvas bag tightly to her side with the other. The bag sagged heavily, as if weighed down not by groceries but by burdens too heavy to name. She stood at the very edge of the pavement, guarding that square of ground like it was the only steady thing in a blurry, shifting world.
Her name was Emily. She was forty-eight. Looked younger. Her face was fine-boned, with sharp cheekbones, her hair twisted carelessly into a bun. Her eyes were pale, but beneath them lay a faint blue shadow—not from sleepless nights, but from the constant absence of warmth, attention, anything resembling wonder.
Inside, she wasn’t shattered or broken—just tired. Tired of the endless sameness of days, the shrill beep of the alarm clock, the hollow replies of “fine” and “same as ever” she used to disguise the truth. Tired of evenings that dissolved into silence, no questions asked, no shoulder to lean on. Tired of piecing herself together every morning just to get through another day.
She woke at seven. The house creaked as her son, Oliver, got ready for college. He muttered a quick “morning” on his way out without bothering to step into the kitchen. She lay there a moment longer, staring at the cracked ceiling, then dragged herself up.
In the mirror—just a face. No anger, no joy, not even irritation. Just a face. She drank her coffee standing by the counter, pulled on her coat, grabbed her bag, and left. The day didn’t begin. It simply carried on from the one before.
Today, she had to go into town—pick up some forms, drop by the neurologist, and, if she was lucky, find Oliver a new jacket. The pavement was slick with drizzle. People hurried past as she walked, gripping her bag like it was the only thing holding her together. On the way, she bought two Cornish pasties. Ate one, tucked the other into a napkin—for the homeless man who usually sat near the underpass. Today, he wasn’t there. She left the pasty on the bench anyway. Just in case.
The doctor’s waiting room was packed. Four elderly women chattered about blood pressure, their gardens, and the cramped office where “that poor doctor must be suffocating.” Emily sat against the wall, scrolling through news on her phone. Explosions, deaths, tragedies that weren’t hers, glossy smiles belonging to strangers. Lives worlds away. She locked the screen. Not because she was tired of it—just because none of it mattered.
The neurologist droned on about “autonomic dysfunction” and “needing rest.” She nodded like she was listening. All she could think was: where was there a place to just lie down and not have to hold herself together? Where she didn’t have to be strong, didn’t have to smile, didn’t have to exist—even for just a day.
Outside, the air had turned sharp. The wind nipped at her collar. She bought a takeaway coffee, sipping it slowly, the heat the only comfort left. Sat on a bench in the square, bag pressed to her side, breath curling into her scarf.
A man sat down beside her. Maybe mid-fifties. Worn lines around his eyes, shoulders slumped. Without looking at her, he said quietly,
“Bit cold, isn’t it? Still don’t fancy going home though.”
She wasn’t even surprised. It was like he’d spoken her thoughts aloud. They talked—about work, about food, about how life had twisted strangely. He was a night security guard at a supermarket. His wife had gone to stay with their daughter and didn’t seem keen on coming back. Letters arrived less often now. He didn’t even open them.
She worked at the post office. Lived with her mother, who forgot names, dates, even her own reflection sometimes. Woke at night searching for her late husband—gone five years now. They spoke quietly, almost casually, as if discussing the weather rather than their quiet sorrows.
They drank their coffee in silence. The wind tugged at his coat. Eventually, he stood and, almost hesitantly, said,
“You won’t mind if I remember you, will you?”
“No. Just don’t get me mixed up with someone else.”
He smiled for the first time.
“Won’t happen. Just nice to know someone else is out there. Not on a screen. Not in a headline. Actually here.”
He walked off without looking back. She watched until the wind swallowed him up.
That evening, Oliver came home. She reheated dinner, asked about his day. He shrugged, eyes on his phone. Then—glanced up.
“How was yours?”
The spoon stilled in her hand. Those four words kindled something small inside.
“Same as always,” she said softly.
He nodded—but didn’t look away immediately. It wasn’t much. But in her world, where days blurred into one another like carbon copies, it meant something.
Later, lying in the dark, she wondered if somewhere, someone was remembering that bench, the coffee, the quiet that held space for a stranger’s kindness.
And for now, that was enough. Not a miracle. Just an anchor. Enough to get up tomorrow. Enough to step into another day.
