The morning was eerily still. The hallway breathed stale air—a mix of cat food, old plastic, and something faintly sweet, like rotting tangerine peel or cheap perfume. Emily pressed her forehead against the cold doorframe and froze, listening as the balcony door in the next flat slammed shut again. The third time this week. A sharp, nervous sound—not just the wind. It was like a shout, an echo of someone else’s argument, as if the wall between their lives had grown too thin.
She sniffed. Not from the cold—from exhaustion. She tugged on her grey trainers, scuffed at the heels—her “armour.” In them, she was nearly invisible, but together. Whole. Even if everything inside had long since unraveled.
The neighbour from the fourth floor—the one with brick-dust moustache and the same faded blue tracksuit—slid past like a shadow. Once, he’d stopped her in the stairwell with, “Must be lonely, all on your own, eh?” Ever since, his voice scraped like rusted nails under skin.
The bus was late, as usual. Inside smelled of damp coats, lager, and sour resignation. Emily gripped the handrail until her fingers turned white and stared through the smudged window. Her reflection—a pale face, shadows under her eyes, a beige coat slipping off one shoulder. As if nothing about her was quite where it should be. Mum would say, “You’re like a ghost.” But Mum didn’t know what it was to live when days didn’t end, just blurred into one grey, sticky mass with no edges.
The office was empty. Nearly everyone had gone remote. Only those like her stayed—the ones for whom home was worse than this lifeless corridor. Here, at least, there were no hissed accusations, no plates thrown against walls, no eyes boring into her. Here was safe. Cold. Empty. But safe.
At one, she stepped into the business park courtyard. She didn’t smoke. Just stood. The security guard walked by, pretending not to see—as always. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Mum.
“Mum, I’m at work.”
“You’re alone again. Maybe go out? Get some air, at least.”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Emily, love, this isn’t living. You’re just existing. At thirty-two—”
“Bye, Mum.”
She hung up. Not angry. Just too tired to explain.
On the way back, she stopped at the shop. Bought soft cheese, buns, peppermint tea. At the till—an older man. He smiled and wordlessly let her go ahead.
“Thanks,” she said. Surprised at how light, how calm it sounded.
Home was already dark, though it wasn’t evening yet. She turned on not the main light but the old fairy lights—the ones hung up years ago for Christmas. Back then, that winter, everything seemed different. Simple. Bright. Warm. They’d laughed, eaten burnt toast, played music from a phone. Now—just her.
She sat right on the floor. Leaned against the wall. The fridge clicked, as if confirming the flat was still alive. She didn’t flinch. Just sighed. The sounds weren’t enemies anymore. They were witnesses.
She picked up her phone. Opened the folder labelled “Voice.” Fifteen files. Him saying, “I’m here, you’re the only one,” “We’ll figure it out,” “You’re special.” And the last one—garbled, a shout, curses, a dull 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, autumn, real. On the balcony, the door slammed again. She smiled.
“Let it,” she whispered.
She made tea. 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 finally felt alive.”*
And it was enough. Enough for the world—cracked and crooked as it was—to stop feeling like a threat. Because now, it was hers. Not happy. Not perfect. But hers.
