The expiry date had passed
Yesterday’s dawn in a quiet town on the edge of the Cotswolds greeted Emily with a chill. The kitchen, soaked in the damp of old walls, was silent, save for the occasional creak of floorboards. The morning light, seeping through the grimy window, cast her shadow on the floor—long and wavering, as if afraid to take up too much space. Emily flicked on the kettle, which hissed like a startled animal, and fumbled in the cupboard for a tin of custard. Her fingers lingered on the cold metal. Best before: two years ago. For some reason, that brought a strange sort of relief.
Four years ago, Oliver had hauled home an entire crate of the stuff. “Just in case,” he’d said, laughing as they sat on the floor, eating it straight from the tin with strong tea. Back then, they’d debated what was sweeter—the custard or his terrible jokes, which always made her laugh until her cheeks hurt. He’d leave a dab on her cheek, and she’d wipe it off, pretending to be cross. Then, slowly, things changed. The laughter faded. The crate gathered dust in the cupboard, a relic of a past she couldn’t bring herself to dismantle.
Emily cracked the tin open. Her fingers trembled, as if afraid to wake something long asleep. The smell hit her—bitter, with a tang of rust. It didn’t remind her of Oliver. It reminded her of herself—the girl who once believed love could be sealed tight, preserved forever. But even custard, it seemed, had an expiry date. Quiet. No fanfare.
Everything Oliver left behind had its own shelf life. His jumper, which she’d worn at first to feel his warmth, then simply because it was comfortable. The theatre tickets for a show they’d never seen, tucked inside a half-read novel. The teapot stand from a village fair, forgotten on a shelf like misplaced hope. And this custard. At first, she couldn’t throw it out—as though disposing of the tins would make the break final. Then she simply grew used to them. Like the quiet in the flat.
They hadn’t argued. No shouting, no smashed plates. Oliver had just… dimmed. First, he stopped meeting her eyes. Then “we” became “I.” Then came the late nights, the scent of someone else’s smoke lingering on his coat. It all happened quietly, without drama. And then one day: “I need space.” Off to a mate’s. Then gone for good. No grand words, no full stop. Like water leaking from a cracked mug.
She wasn’t angry, honestly. Just couldn’t work out how to keep living. For months, she’d make tea for two out of habit, check the weather for him, draft texts she never sent. Slowly, she erased his traces—from the bedsheets, the curtains, the air itself. Learned to live alone. Slowly. With night terrors. With sudden chest pains in broad daylight, like an echo no one had switched off.
Work kept her busy, but not warm. Office colleagues were polite but insubstantial as paper napkins. Family—too far, hundreds of miles away. Friends drowned in their own worlds—kids, husbands, Instagram posts about clean eating. Emily was frozen. Like a film still, the heroine paused at a crossroads, unsure whether to step forward or wait for a miracle.
Once, on a crowded bus, she noticed an elderly woman. Seventy if a day, clutching a worn-out tote, eyes hollow as if life had long since washed out of her. Emily saw herself there. Not old—just empty. Not afraid of wrinkles, but of the silence inside where nothing new was ever expected. Fear gripped her throat like winter air.
That same evening, she signed up for swing dancing. Then pottery classes. Then went to the cinema alone. Not to find someone. To find herself—the one who’d existed before Oliver, before expectations, before love became her only horizon.
She wasn’t waiting for miracles. Just coming back, bit by bit. A new throw blanket, just because she liked it. Bergamot-scented soap in the bathroom—sharp, a reminder that everything passes. Tea without sugar but with the faintest hint of freedom. She had her own evenings now. Her own thoughts. Her own quiet. And for the first time in years—the sense that loneliness wasn’t a cage, but space where she belonged.
She bumped into Oliver three years later. In a tiny Boots on the corner. He stood in line clutching paracetamol, hair gone grey, shoulders hunched, wearing that same battered jacket from their past—just like his tired expression. He looked like a man chasing what had long since slipped away.
He saw her and froze.
“Hi,” he said, voice cracking like a teenager’s.
“Hi,” she replied. Calm. Though for a second, everything inside her clenched like a fist.
Silence. A chasm. Years that never were flew between them. Questions she didn’t ask. Answers that didn’t matter now.
“How’ve you been?” he asked, staring at the floor.
“Expiry date’s passed,” she said with a small smile. Not bitter. Just matter-of-fact. Like closing a book.
He didn’t get it. Or maybe he did, but stayed quiet. Just looked at her a beat too long, as if waiting for more. But Emily had already turned to the herbal remedies. Slowly. Without anger. Without pain.
Today, she made tea. Pulled out one last tin of custard—buried at the back, lid dented and tarnished. The smell was the same—bitter, slightly dark. But it didn’t hurt anymore. Didn’t drag her back. Just sat there, undeniable: everything ends. Even what felt eternal. Even love.
She stirred a spoonful into her mug. Took a sip. The taste was odd but no longer sharp. Just honest. Like a memory finally let go.
The custard reminded her: even the sweetest things spoil. And that’s alright. Because when one thing ends, there’s always room for something new. New flavours. New strength. A new expiry date—but this time, entirely hers.
