The morning was eerily silent. The stairwell breathed stale air—a mix of cat food, old plastic, and something sickly sweet, like rotting tangerine peel or cheap perfume. Emily leaned her forehead against the cold doorframe and froze, listening as the balcony in the next flat slammed shut again. The third time this week. A sharp, jittery sound—not just the wind. It was a cry, 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 pulled on her battered grey trainers, the heels worn flat—her “armour.” In them, she was nearly invisible but contained. Whole. Even if inside, she’d long since unraveled.
The neighbour from the fourth floor—the one with brick-dust-coloured stubble and the same blue tracksuit—slid past like a shadow. Once, he’d stopped her with, “Must be lonely on your own, eh?” Since then, his voice cut like rusted metal under a fingernail.
The bus was late, as usual. Inside, it smelled of damp coats, stale beer, and quiet despair. Emily gripped the handrail until her knuckles whitened, staring at the fogged-up window. Her reflection—a pale face, shadows under her eyes, a grey coat slipping off one shoulder—looked misplaced. Her mother would’ve said, “You’re like a ghost.” But her mother didn’t know what it was to live when days didn’t end, just bled into one grey sludge with no beginning or end.
The office was empty. Nearly everyone had gone remote. Only the ones like her remained—those for whom home was worse than this lifeless corridor. Here, at least, there were no accusations, no plates shattering against walls, no piercing stares. Here was safety. Cold. Empty. But safe.
At one, she stepped into the business centre’s courtyard. She didn’t smoke. Just stood. The security guard walked past, pretending not to notice—as usual. Her phone buzzed. Her mother.
“Mum, I’m at work.”
“You’re alone again. Maybe go out? Take a walk, 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. No anger. Just no strength left to explain.
On the way back, she stopped at the shop. Bought soft cheese, rolls, peppermint tea. At the till—an older man. He smiled and wordlessly let her go ahead.
“Thanks,” she said, surprised at how light, how steady it sounded.
Home was dark, though evening hadn’t fallen yet. Emily flicked on not the main light but the old string of fairy lights—the ones they’d hung that one Christmas. Back then, everything had seemed different. Simple. Bright. Warm. They’d laughed, eaten burnt toast, played music from a phone. Now—just her.
She sat on the floor. Leaned against the wall. The fridge clicked, as if reassuring her the flat was still alive. She didn’t flinch. Just sighed. The sounds weren’t enemies anymore. They were witnesses.
She grabbed her phone. Opened the voice recordings folder. “Voice.” Fifteen files. Him saying, “I’m with you, you’re the only one,” “We’ll make it,” “You’re special.” And the last one—crackling, shouting, swearing, a dull thud—a door? A fist? A heart?
Emily tapped “delete.” Her hand didn’t tremble.
She stood. Opened the window. Reached for the air—dirty, autumnal, real. The balcony door slammed again. She smiled.
“Let it,” she whispered.
She brewed tea. Arranged the rolls on a white plate. Sat at the table. Opened her laptop. Blank screen. She typed the first line:
“That day, I wasn’t afraid of being alone—I finally felt alive.”
And it was enough. The world, cracked and crooked, no longer felt hostile. Because now—it was hers. Not happy. Not perfect. But hers.
