No Breath Left
Emily turned the key slowly and crept inside the flat. No matter how quietly she tried to shut the door, the lock still clicked. Without switching on the light, she slipped off her shoes and tiptoed toward her bedroom door. Then—a sharp snap of the switch echoed like a gunshot in the silent flat.
“Emily, where have you been? It’s so late. I rang Sophie. You lied to me,” came her mother’s voice.
Emily froze, took a shaky breath, and turned around.
“What are you still doing up?” she shot back.
“How could I sleep when you weren’t home? I was worried.” Mum’s eyes were anxious as they searched her daughter’s face.
“I’m an adult, Mum. Stop keeping tabs on me,” Emily muttered.
“Yes, yes, an adult…” Mum waved a hand dismissively and retreated to her room—though she left the door ajar.
Emily hesitated, then followed, sinking onto the sofa beside her.
“Sorry, Mum. I lost track of time.”
Mum looked pale and exhausted. The harsh ceiling light deepened the lines under her eyes, where unspoken reproach lingered.
“I wasn’t alone. I was with James. We went to the cinema, then just walked around. No need to worry.”
“James?”
“Yeah. Met him a fortnight ago. He’s… different. Knows so much.” A faint smile touched Emily’s lips, her gaze drifting. She leaned closer, resting her head on Mum’s shoulder.
“So last time, when you said you were with Sophie—?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I get it, love, but why not just tell me? Is he at uni too? Are you in the same course?”
“He’s already finished uni, got a job,” Emily replied quickly.
“So he’s older? Oh, sweetheart…” Mum sighed, and Emily stiffened, ready to argue—but Mum cut in first. “Will you introduce us?”
“Course. You’ll like him.”
“Didn’t realise you’d grown up so fast.” Mum’s smile was wistful. “It’s late—off to bed.”
“Night, Mum.” Emily pecked her cheek and vanished into her room.
Undressed and under the covers, she stared at the ceiling, replaying every word, every kiss, lost in dreams…
By morning, Mum had already left for work. Emily washed up, ate the breakfast left for her, and snatched her phone.
“Hey, at work already?” she chirped.
“Yeah.” His reply was clipped.
“Bad time?” Her smile faltered at the ice in his voice.
“Obviously. I’ll ring later.” The line went dead.
“‘I’ll ring *you* later’?” Emily blinked at the darkened screen.
*Someone’s there*, she reasoned, then waited, picking up a book but absorbing none of it. The telly offered nothing. She rang Sophie—they met for ice cream, Emily gushing about love—when James finally called back.
“Sorry, Em. Just bad timing earlier. Meet tonight?”
“Yes!” she beamed.
Later, she told him, “Mum wants to meet you.”
James tensed. “You told her about us? She’s fine with it?” His eyes narrowed.
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“We’ve not been together long… Meeting parents means serious intentions.”
“And ours *aren’t*?” Emily’s voice sharpened.
“I *am* serious about you.” He pulled her close, his face hidden. “But your mum’ll interrogate me.”
“How many girlfriends’ parents *have* you met? Spill.” She poked his ribs playfully.
“A couple.”
“Nothing to hide, then? No Bluebeard’s chamber full of exes? Not *married*, are you?” She laughed.
“God, no. Where’d you get that?”
“Whatever. Where now?”
“Not much time—Mum wants me home early. Just a walk?” His kiss left her dizzy, doubts melting.
They strolled entwined, James murmuring how he’d lain awake craving her, how she was all he thought of. Promised once Mum was better, he’d invite her over, introduce them properly. After Dad died, phone calls startled her—that’s why he switched it off at home…
Emily imagined their future—her waiting with dinner, him bringing flowers, kissing her hello. The dream warmed her chest.
“Still coming Saturday? Mum’s baking her chocolate cake.”
Instead of answering, he kissed her deeply.
On Saturday, James rang—Mum was poorly, an ambulance came, he couldn’t leave her…
Emily slumped.
“It’s fine. Shows he’s a good son—means he’ll be a good husband. Let’s eat the cake,” Mum said.
Emily forced down a slice. Restless, she wandered the flat. She’d imagined the whole day together. Sophie was away—bloody inconvenient.
Mum nudged her outside. Late summer’s last warmth clung to the air—too precious to waste. Emily wandered far, buying an ice cream—then froze.
There was James. Pushing a pram. Beside him, a striking blonde. Emily ducked behind a tree, watching. They passed. The ice cream melted. She binned it, trudged home, swallowing tears. *If not his wife—who?*
“Watch where you’re going!” a woman snapped.
“Sorry.” Blind to the world, she walked on.
Then—a thought. He wasn’t home. His mum wasn’t there. She could ring. The call didn’t connect.
“You look awful,” Mum said, seeing her face.
“Just tired.” Emily fled to her room.
Later, Mum sat on her bed. Emily lay still, hugging herself.
“What’s wrong? Did he hurt you?”
Emily turned away. Mum sighed. Lately, Emily had withdrawn—love, sure, but something felt *off*.
Next day, James rang, cheerful. “Missed you. Got a surprise.”
She almost scoffed. “*Another one?*” But curiosity won.
“What?”
“You’ll see. Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”
She preened—a summer dress (too chilly now), settling for a skirt and floaty top, hair down.
“Gorgeous,” James murmured, making her blush. All questions dissolved.
“What’s the surprise?”
“Patience.”
Through backstreets, they reached a brick building. Third floor.
“Your place? What about your mum?”
“No, Em. My mate’s.” The bell rang.
A friendly bloke let them in, then left.
“Just us,” James whispered, kissing her neck. His hands grew urgent. She melted…
After, happy and grown-up, she finally asked about the pram.
“Oh—neighbour. Ran into her at the chemist.” He smirked. “Jealous?”
“I thought she was your wife.”
“*You’re* my wife.” He kissed her again, called a cab.
She memorised his address as he gave it to the driver.
Now they met twice weekly at his mate’s flat. Other days, she ached. Their time always ran out.
She wanted to ask—why no more walks? What next? She loved him, would do anything. But he always rushed off—Mum needed injections. A cab. A goodbye.
Her life revolved around *his* time. She knew it was wrong. But James was her drug.
Mum saw her suffering—irritable, withdrawn. They drifted apart.
Autumn passed. Christmas lights twinkled.
“Any plans for New Year’s?” Mum asked.
Emily’s hope for James had faded.
“Don’t know,” she snapped.
“Talk to me. You’ll only make things worse alone.”
Emily met her eyes, raw.
“I’m pregnant.”
Mum gasped. “Does he know?”
Emily shook her head.
“Tell him.”
They cried together, holding each other tight.
Next day, she went to James’s. His phone was off. At his building, she waited till an old man emerged.
“Top floor, last left. Who’re you?”
She sprinted up. A baby wailed inside. The door opened—the blonde.
“Oh, thought you were the doctor.”
“Does James live here?”
The baby’s cry sharpened. The woman vanished inside, leaving the door ajar.
Emily stepped back. *Liar*. Wife. Child. No sick mum. All lies.
What now? *His* child.
A text buzzed: *”Why’d you come by? Lost your mind?”* She sobbed.
At home, she collapsed onto a stool.
“Emily? I’m doing the tree—come help!” Mum called.
Emily locked the bathroom door, ran the bath. Found Dad’s old razor. The water was scalding.
Mum’s knocking grew frantic. Neighbours broke the door.
Emily woke in hospital.
Mum clutched her hand. “You scared me to death.”
“I’m sorry.”
Exams passed in a blur. She blocked James’s number. TheYears later, under a different sky, Emily would realise the best escape was simply walking away, one step at a time, until the past could no longer reach her.
