I woke up and, just in case, cranked my phone to full volume. Deep down I knew he wouldnt write back. The feeling settled over me like the first hint of a British drizzleheavy, inevitable, as if the air thickened before a storm. Still, I turned the speaker on. Hope clings on like an old scar: it aches, but it refuses to let go.
Milly Harcourt pulled her hair into a casual bun, giving it just enough care to look effortless but pretty. She slipped on that darkgreen coatthe one hed once said made her look like an autumn wood. Shed barely worn it since, but today she dug it out of the wardrobe. She painted her lips a bold scarlet, far too vivid for a morning stroll to the chemist and the bakery.
The chemist was bustling. Someone coughed hoarsely in the corner, a pair argued over the price of prescription tablets, another stood still, shifting weight from foot to foot. The scent of medicinal herbs mixed with a sharp, chemical tang. Milly grabbed the vitamins hed recommended three years ago, back when they still shared coffee over the kitchen table. She held the packet, squinting at the tiny print. Expiry: next autumn. As if the little box were counting down its own final months.
The bakery smelled exactly the same as always: a bloke with a tattoo on his wrist behind the counter, fresh bread and cinnamon wafting through, a battered speaker humming a lazy tune. Milly chose a raspberry croissantthe one hed once called the taste of morning while wiping crumbs from his chin. She took two. One for tea at home, like in the days when everything seemed simpler. The other, just because. A tiny bite of the past she could tuck into her pocket.
Back at the flat, the silence was thick, like dust settled on old books. The air felt frozen, as if it were too shy to stir. The phone lay on the windowsill, screen facedown, as if embarrassed to meet her gaze. No messages. No missed calls. It was as though the world had decided to walk past her unnoticed, and shed become a shadow melting into the grey morning light.
She set the kettle on, slipped off the coat slowly, as though trying not to scare the quiet away. She placed her boots neatly by the door, straightened the coats collar on the rack. She turned on an ancient transistor radio; the announcer droned about traffic jams, a fresh snowfall, and an exhibition at the local museum. The sound came muffled, like it were underwater. She took a sip of teascalding hot, burning the back of her throatbut swallowed without a wince. She pressed her forehead to the cold glass of the window.
Outside, snow fell in fine, prickly flakes, settling on umbrellas, scarves, the pavement, then disappearing almost as quickly. A young father in a dark overcoat adjusted his sons hat with the gentle care that comes with years. Elderly couples shuffled along, leaning on each other as if their arms had fused over decades. Some hurried across the icy sidewalk, some laughed into their phones, others lingered at a shop window adorned with Christmas lights. Life thundered onnoisy, alive, indifferent. It passed her by like a train that left the platform while she hesitated on the edge.
He didnt write.
Still, she swept the floor with an old broom, though there was hardly any dust. She called Aunt Maud and listened to tales of the country cottage, the nosy neighbour, a new cake recipe. She watered her wilting cactus, checking carefully that it hadnt turned yellow. She booked a doctors appointmenta small task shed been putting off for months. She reviewed the receiptseverything paidand ticked the box in her diary. She washed the throw blanket, adding a splash more fabric softener so the house would smell warm and livedin.
That evening she switched on the lights in every room, not because she feared darkness but because the house seemed alive with themits windows glowing, reflecting on the wet pavement, as if whispering, Someones here. Theres life inside.
Milly stared at her reflection in the glass and thought, He didnt write. But I am still here. No excuse, no challengejust a quiet truth. Like lighting a candle not for anyone else, but for yourself, to remember that youre still standing.
