**Diary Entry – October 12th**
The morning was eerily quiet. The stairwell smelled of damp, a mix of stale takeaway, old vinyl, and something sickly sweet—like rotting orange peel or cheap perfume. Emily leaned her forehead against the cold doorframe and listened. That balcony door next door had slammed shut again—the third time this week. A sharp, angry sound, not just the wind. Like a shout, an echo of someone else’s argument leaking through the paper-thin walls between their lives.
She sniffed—not from the chill, just exhaustion. Pulled on her grey trainers, scuffed at the heels, her “everyday armour.” In them, she was nearly invisible but still together. Whole. Even if everything inside had long since unravelled.
The neighbour from the fourth floor—the one with brick-dust-coloured stubble and a faded navy tracksuit—slipped past like a shadow. Once, he’d stopped her with, “Must be lonely, living alone, eh?” His voice had grated ever since, like rusted metal under the skin.
The bus was late, as usual. Inside, it reeked of wet coats, lager, and something sour, like resignation. Emily gripped the handrail until her knuckles whitened and stared through the smudged window. Her reflection: a pale face, dark smudges under her eyes, a beige trench coat slipping off one shoulder. Everything about her seemed slightly off. Her mum would’ve said, “You look like a ghost.” But her mum didn’t know what it was like to live when days didn’t end, just blurred into one dull, shapeless stretch.
The office was nearly empty. Most had switched to remote work. Only people like her stayed—those who found home worse than this lifeless hallway. Here, at least, no one shouted. No plates smashed against walls. No stares bored into her. It was cold. Empty. But safe.
At one, she stepped into the business park courtyard. She didn’t smoke, just stood there. The security guard walked by and pretended not to see her—same as always. Her phone buzzed. Mum.
*”Mum, I’m at work.”*
*”You’re alone again. Why not go somewhere? Take a walk.”*
*”I’ve got things to do.”*
*”Emily, love, this isn’t living. You’re just existing. At thirty-two—”*
*”Gotta go.”*
She hung up. No anger. Just no energy left to explain.
On the way back, she stopped at the shop. Bought soft cheese, rolls, peppermint tea. At the till, an older man smiled and gestured for her to go ahead.
*”Thanks,”* she said, surprised at how light her own voice sounded.
Home was already dark, though it wasn’t evening yet. Emily flicked on the fairy lights instead of the ceiling lamp—the same ones they’d hung up that one Christmas. Back then, everything had felt different. Simple. 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, as if reminding her the flat was still alive. She didn’t flinch. Just sighed. The noises weren’t enemies anymore. Just witnesses.
She picked up her phone. Opened the voice recordings folder. *”His Voice.”* Fifteen files. Him saying, *”I’m with you, you’re the only one,”* *”We’ll figure it out,”* *”You’re special.”* The last one—shouting, swearing, a muffled thud—a door? A fist? A heartbeat?
Emily pressed *delete.* Her hand didn’t shake.
She stood. Opened the window. Reached for the air—damp, autumn-heavy, real. That balcony door slammed again. She smiled.
*”Let it,”* she whispered.
She made tea. Arranged the rolls on a white plate. Sat at the table. Opened her laptop. Typed the first line:
*”That day, I wasn’t afraid of being alone—I finally felt 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.
**Lesson learned:** Solitude isn’t the enemy. It’s just space—space to breathe, to remember yourself. Even the quietest corners can hold a kind of peace.
