The morning was eerily silent. The hallway breathed stale air—a mix of cat food, old plastic, and something sickly sweet, like rotting tangerine peel or cheap perfume. Emily pressed her forehead against the cold doorframe and froze, listening as the neighbor’s balcony door slammed shut again. The third time this week. The sharp, jittery noise wasn’t just the wind. It was like a shout, an echo of someone else’s fight, as if the wall between their lives had grown too thin.
Emily sniffed. Not from the cold—from exhaustion. She tugged on her scuffed trainers, the soles worn thin at the heels, her “armour.” In them, she was almost invisible, but at least she felt put together. Whole. Even if everything inside had long since fallen apart.
The bloke from the fourth floor—the one with brick-dust-colored stubble and the same blue tracksuit—slipped past like a shadow. Once, he’d stopped her with a smirk: “Must be lonely, living all by yourself, eh?” Ever since, his voice grated like rusted nails dragged under skin.
The bus was late, as usual. Inside, it smelled of damp coats, lager, and stale resignation. Emily gripped the handrail until her knuckles whitened, staring at the fogged-up window. Her reflection—a pale face, a hollow under one eye, a grey coat slipping off her shoulder. Like nothing about her was where it should be. Her mum would say, “You’re like a ghost.” But her mum didn’t know what it was like to live when days didn’t end—they just bled into one thick, grey sludge, impossible to untangle.
The office was empty. Almost everyone had gone remote. Only those like her remained—the ones for whom home was worse than this dead corridor. Here, at least, there were no muttered jabs, no plates thrown against walls, no stares that burned holes. Here, it was safe. Cold. Empty. But safe.
At one, she stepped into the business park courtyard. She didn’t smoke. She just stood. The security guard walked past, pretending not to notice—same as always. Her phone buzzed. Mum.
“Mum, I’m at work.”
“You’re alone again. Why not go out somewhere? Take a walk.”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Emily, love, this isn’t living. You’re just existing. At thirty-two…”
“Bye, Mum.”
She hung up. No anger. Just no strength left for excuses.
On the way back, she stopped at the shop. Bought soft cheese, buns, peppermint tea. At the till, an older man smiled and motioned for her to go ahead.
“Thanks,” she said, surprised at how light her voice sounded.
The flat was dark by the time she got home, though it wasn’t evening yet. She turned on the fairy lights instead of the overhead bulb—the same ones she’d strung up that one Christmas. Back then, in that winter, everything had felt different. Simple. Bright. Warm. They’d laughed, eaten burnt toast, played music from a phone. Now—just her.
She sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. The fridge clicked, a quiet reminder the flat was still alive. She didn’t flinch. Just exhaled. The noises weren’t enemies now. They were witnesses.
She picked up her phone. Opened the folder labeled “Voice.” Fifteen files. He’d said, “I’m here, you’re the only one,” “We’ll make it work,” “You’re special.” And the last one—broken words, shouting, a muffled thud—a door? A fist? A heart?
Emily pressed delete. Her hand didn’t shake.
She stood. Opened the window. Reached for the air—dirty, autumnal, real. The balcony door banged shut again. She smiled.
“Let it,” she whispered. “Let it bang.”
She boiled the kettle. Arranged the buns on a white plate. Sat at the table. Opened her laptop. A blank page. She typed the first line:
“That day, I wasn’t afraid of being alone—I just felt, for the first time, that I was alive.”
And somehow, that was enough. The world, cracked and crooked as it was, didn’t feel so hostile anymore. Because now—it was hers. Not happy. Not perfect. But hers.
