The Best Before Date
Yesterday’s dawn in a quiet market town on the outskirts of the Lake District greeted Emily with a chill. The kitchen, damp with the mustiness of old walls, stayed silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards. Morning light struggled through the grimy window, casting her shadow—long, wavering, as if even it was afraid to take up too much space. Emily switched on the electric kettle, which hissed like a grumpy cat, and fumbled in the cupboard for a tin of custard. Her fingers lingered on the cold metal. The best before date had expired two years ago. For some reason, that brought her a strange sort of relief.
Four years ago, James had lugged home an entire crate of the stuff. “You never know, might come in handy,” he’d said, laughing, as they sat on the floor eating it straight from the tin, washing it down with strong tea. Back then, they’d argued over what was sweeter—the custard or his terrible jokes, which always made her snort with laughter. He’d leave traces behind—a dab on her cheek that she’d wipe away, pretending to scold him. Then, slowly, everything changed. The laughter faded. The crate gathered dust in the pantry like a monument to a past she couldn’t bear to clear out.
Emily pried open the tin now, her fingers trembling as if afraid to wake something long asleep. The smell hit her—bitter, with a metallic edge. It didn’t remind her of James. It reminded her of herself—the version who’d once believed love could be sealed tight, preserved forever, like this tin. But even custard, it turned out, had an expiry date. Quiet. No fanfare.
Everything James had left behind had its own shelf life. His jumper, which she’d worn at first to feel his warmth, then simply because it was cosy. A ticket for a play at the local theatre—one they’d never gotten around to seeing—tucked into the book he’d abandoned halfway. The teapot stand they’d bought at a countryside fair, now sitting dusty on the shelf like a forgotten hope. And this custard. At first, she hadn’t thrown it out, as if getting rid of the tins would mean admitting it was truly over. Then she’d just gotten used to them being there. Like the quiet in the flat.
They hadn’t fought. No shouting, no smashed plates. James had simply… faded. First, he stopped meeting her eyes. Then he swapped “we” for “I.” Then came the late nights, the smell of someone else’s cigarettes on his coat. It all happened quietly, without drama. Then one day, he’d said, “I need some space”—and left. First to a mate’s. Then for good. No grand words, no final line. Like water slowly seeping from a cracked mug.
Emily wasn’t angry. Really. She just didn’t know how to carry on. For months, she’d boiled the kettle for two out of habit, checked the weather for him, typed messages she never sent. Then she’d begun erasing his traces—from the sheets, the curtains, the very air in the rooms. Learning to live alone. Slowly. With nightmares. With sudden stabs of pain in her chest, sharp as a needle, in the middle of an ordinary day.
Work kept her busy, but it didn’t warm her. Colleagues were like stage props—polite, but empty as paper napkins. Family was miles away, in another county. Friends were buried in their own lives—kids, husbands, Instagram posts about gluten-free diets. Emily was stuck. Like a film paused mid-scene, the heroine frozen at a crossroads, unsure whether to step forward or wait for a miracle.
Once, on a crowded bus, she’d spotted an elderly woman. Seventy if she was a day, clutching a battered bag, her eyes hollow—as if life had long since drained from them. Emily had stared and seen herself. Not old. Just… empty. It wasn’t wrinkles she feared, but that silence inside where you stop expecting anything new. The thought had grabbed her throat like an icy draft.
That same evening, she signed up for a salsa class. Then pottery. Then went to the cinema alone. Not to find someone else. To find herself—the version from before James, before expectations, before love became her only horizon.
She didn’t expect miracles. Just… herself. Step by step. A new throw blanket, one she actually liked. Bergamot-scented soap in the bathroom—sharp, a reminder that nothing lasts. Tea without sugar, but with the taste of freedom. She had her own evenings now. Her own thoughts. Her own silences. And for the first time in years, a quiet certainty: loneliness didn’t have to be a cage. It could be space—just for her.
She ran into James three years later. In a tiny Boots at the corner of the high street. He was queuing, clutching a box of paracetamol. His hair had gone grey, his shoulders stooped, his jacket—the same one from their past—worn thin, like his expression. He looked like a man who’d spent years chasing something just out of reach.
He spotted her and froze.
“Hey,” he said, voice cracking like a teenager’s.
“Hey,” she replied. Calm. Even as something twisted inside her, sharp and fleeting.
Silence. A canyon between them, full of years unlived, questions unasked, answers that didn’t matter anymore.
“How’ve you been?” he asked, staring at the floor.
“Best before date’s up,” she said with a small smile. Not bitter. Just… final. Like closing a book.
He didn’t get it. Or maybe he did, but didn’t say. Just held her gaze a second too long, as if waiting for more. But Emily had already turned to the herbal teas. Slowly. No anger. No ache.
Today, she boiled the kettle. Reached for the last tin of custard—the one tucked at the very back, its lid tarnished, the side dented. The smell was the same—dark, slightly sour. But it didn’t hurt anymore. Didn’t drag her back. Just sat there, a simple truth: everything ends. Even what felt eternal. Even love.
She stirred a spoonful into her tea. Took a sip. The taste was odd, but not sharp. Honest. Like a memory finally let go.
The custard was a reminder: even the sweetest things go off. And that’s fine. Because when one thing ends, there’s always room for something new. Different flavours. Different strengths. A fresh best before date—this time, all her own.
