**Expiry Date**
Yesterday’s dawn in the quiet town on the edge of the Pennines met Emily with a chill. The kitchen, steeped in the damp of old walls, was silent except for the occasional creak of floorboards. Morning light, seeping through the grimy window, cast her shadow onto the floor—long and wavering, as if afraid to take up too much space. She switched on the rattling electric kettle, which hissed like a startled animal, and fumbled in the cupboard for a tin of Carnation milk. Her fingers lingered on the cold metal. The expiry date had passed two years ago. For some reason, that brought an odd sense of relief.
Four years ago, James had dragged home an entire crate of the stuff. “Just in case,” he’d said, grinning as they sat on the floor, eating it straight from the tin with strong tea. They’d argued over what was sweeter—the milk or his daft jokes that made her laugh until her sides ached. He always left a smear on her cheek, a drop she’d wipe away, pretending to scold him. Then everything shifted. The laughter faded. The crate gathered dust in the cupboard, a relic of a past she couldn’t bring herself to dismantle.
Emily pried the tin open, fingers trembling as if afraid to wake something long asleep. The smell hit her—bitter, with a tang of rust. It didn’t remind her of James. It reminded her of herself—the woman who once believed love could be sealed tight, preserved forever. But even Carnation milk, it turned out, could quietly spoil. No fanfare. No warning.
Everything left of James had its expiry date. His jumper, which she wore first for warmth, then out of habit. The ticket to a play at the local theatre, tucked into a half-read book. The teapot stand from a village fair, gathering dust like an abandoned hope. And this milk. At first, she couldn’t throw it out, as if discarding the tins meant severing the last thread. Then she simply grew used to them—like the quiet in the flat.
They hadn’t fought. No shouting, no shattered plates. James had just … dimmed. First, he stopped meeting her eyes. Then replaced “we” with “I.” Then came the late nights, the scent of someone else’s smoke on his coat. It happened quietly. And then, one day: “I need time”—and he was gone. First to “mates.” Then for good. No grand words, no full stop. Just a slow leak, like water from a cracked mug.
Emily wasn’t angry. Truly. She just didn’t know how to move on. For months, she made tea for two, checked the weather for his city, typed texts she never sent. Then began erasing his traces. From the bed. The curtains. The air. She learned to live alone. Slowly. With nightmares. With sudden chest pains in broad daylight, like an echo left playing.
Work helped but didn’t warm her. Colleagues were like props—polite, hollow as paper napkins. Family, miles away. Friends drowned in their own lives: kids, husbands, Instagram posts about spiralising courgettes. Emily stayed frozen. A paused film scene, the heroine stuck at a crossroads, unsure whether to step forward or wait for a miracle.
Once, on a packed bus, she noticed an old woman. Seventy if a day, clutching a worn-out bag, eyes empty as if life had long since faded. Emily saw herself—not old, but hollow. Not wrinkles, but the silence inside where nothing new was expected. Fear gripped her throat like an icy draught.
That evening, she signed up for salsa. Then pottery. Went to the cinema alone. Not to find someone else—to find herself. The woman before James, before expectations, before love became her only horizon.
She didn’t expect miracles. Just circled back, step by step. A new throw blanket, just her taste. Bergamot soap in the bathroom, sharp as a reminder: all things pass. Tea without sugar, but with the aftertaste of freedom. She had her own evenings now. Her own thoughts. Her own silences. And for the first time in years, loneliness felt less like a cage—more like open sky.
She ran into James three years later. In a Boots on the high street. He clutched a box of paracetamol, hair greying, shoulders hunched, that same battered jacket from their past hanging loose. He looked like a man chasing what had long since slipped away.
He spotted her and froze.
“Hi,” he said, voice cracking like a boy’s.
“Hi,” she replied. Calmly. Even as something tightened inside, sharp and fleeting.
Silence. A chasm. Years that never were flew through it. Questions unasked. Answers that no longer mattered.
“How’ve you been?” He stared at the floor.
“Expiry date’s passed,” she said, with a small smile. Not bitter. Just final. Like shutting a book.
He didn’t understand. Or chose not to. Just held her gaze a beat too long, as if waiting for more. But Emily turned to the herbal teas. Slowly. Without fury. Without ache.
Today, she boiled the kettle. Pulled out the last tin of Carnation milk—buried at the back, lid tarnished, dented at the edge. The smell was the same: bitter, faintly metallic. But it didn’t sting. Didn’t drag her back. Just sat there, a quiet truth: everything ends. Even what feels 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 released.
The milk was a reminder: even the sweetest things spoil. And that’s alright. Because when one thing ends, there’s always room for the next. New flavour. New strength. A new expiry date—this time, on your own terms.
