One of those days when nothing aches—just lingers
At the bus stop near the old market square in Sheffield stood a woman. She smoked, shielding the flame from the biting wind with one hand while clutching a faded canvas bag with the other. The bag sagged heavily—not from the weight of its contents, but from burdens unseen. She stood at the very edge of the pavement, as though guarding that single square foot of stability in a world that swayed and blurred around her.
Her name was Helen. She was forty-eight. She looked younger. A thin face with sharp cheekbones, hair hastily twisted into a bun, eyes pale but ringed with bruise-like shadows—not from lack of sleep, but from the constant absence of warmth, attention, something like magic.
Inside, she wasn’t broken, just weary. Weary of days that blurred together, of the alarm’s shrill cry, of hollow phrases like “fine” and “same as always” that she used to veil the truth. Weary of evenings that ended the same way—silent, without questions, without another’s shoulder to lean against. Weary of having to gather herself up each morning just to make it through.
She woke at seven. The house creaked under shifting floorboards—her son, James, getting ready for college. He muttered a careless “morning” and left without glancing into the kitchen. She lay another minute, staring at the cracked ceiling, then rose.
In the mirror—just a face. No anger, no joy, not even irritation. Just a face. She drank her coffee standing, leaning against the counter, pulled on her coat, grabbed her bag, and stepped out. The day didn’t begin—it simply carried on from the one before.
Today, she had to go into town—collect a form, stop by the neurologist, and, if she was lucky, find James a new coat. The pavement was slick with rain. People hurried past; she walked among them, the bag pressed to her side like a shield. Along the way, she bought two pasties. Ate one, wrapped the other in a napkin—for the homeless man who usually sat by the underpass. He wasn’t there today. She left the pasty on the bench anyway. Just in case.
The doctor’s waiting room was full—four older women chatting about blood pressure, garden plots, and the cramped office where “that poor doctor must be suffocating.” Helen sat by the wall, scrolling through news on her phone. Explosions, deaths, tragedies that belonged to strangers, glossy smiles that didn’t. Lives far from hers. She turned it off. Not out of weariness—just indifference.
The neurologist spoke of “autonomic dysfunction” and “needing rest.” She nodded, pretending to listen. All she could think was: where is there a place to simply lie down and not think? Not be strong, not smile, not hold herself together. Just vanish for a day.
Outside, the air had turned sharper. Wind slipped under her collar. She bought a paper cup of coffee, sipping it like the last ember of warmth, and sat on a bench in the square. Bag pressed to her thigh, breath caught in her scarf.
A man sat beside her. Mid-fifties, maybe. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Without looking at her, he murmured,
“Bloody cold. Still don’t fancy going home, though.”
She wasn’t surprised. It was as if he’d spoken her own thoughts aloud. They talked. About work. About food. About how life had twisted strangely. He was a night security guard at a convenience store; his wife had gone to stay with their daughter and likely wasn’t coming back. Letters arrived less often now. He didn’t open them anymore.
She worked at the post office. Lived with her mother, who forgot names, dates, even her own reflection. Woke at night searching for her late father—gone five years now. They spoke calmly, as though discussing the weather, not pain.
They fell silent. Drank their coffee. The wind tugged at his coat. Then he stood, almost sheepish, and said,
“Mind if I remember you?”
“No. Just don’t get me mixed up with someone else.”
He smiled for the first time.
“Won’t. Just nice to know someone’s out there. Not on a screen. Not in the telly. Actually here.”
He walked away without looking back. She stayed, watching until the wind swallowed him.
That evening, James came home. She reheated dinner, asked about his day. He shrugged, eyes on his phone. Then, suddenly, he glanced up:
“How was yours?”
The spoon paused in her hand. Four words, and something flickered inside. She answered slowly,
“Just a day. One of many.”
He nodded. Didn’t look away immediately. It was small. But in her world, where days mirrored each other without change—even that mattered.
Later, lying in the dark, she wondered if someone out there remembered that bench, the coffee, the quiet where kindness had found a crack to slip through.
And that thought was enough. Not a miracle. Just an anchor. Enough to get up tomorrow. To step out—into one of the next days.
