Not Today
Emily stumbled upon him by chance—in the subway tunnel near the station in Manchester, where the air was thick with dampness, the scent of cheap coffee, street melodies, and hurried footsteps. He stood leaning against the peeling wall, guitar in hand, singing. Not loudly, not for the crowd—but in a way that pierced the heart. He sang like a man who no longer feared being heard or forgotten. Sang for himself, yet his voice, like a thread, snagged on the noise of the crowd, found her, etched itself into memory. And in an instant, she recognised him.
A voice from the past.
A voice that once made her heart race, nights stretch endlessly, and hopes burn like candles she lit alone. A voice she’d spent years trying to silence, yet it lived on inside her, tucked into a corner of memory where everything sounded too clear, too painful.
James.
He wore the same jacket—black, weathered by time like an old companion of his wanderings. His hair was longer, stubble thicker, but in his eyes was the same elusive glimmer, as though he was always mid-journey, halfway to something inexplicable. She froze. Fumbled for her purse. Dug out some loose change. Dropped it into the open guitar case, and the coins clattered like an echo of their past.
He didn’t look up at first. When he did, there was no surprise. Just a nod, as if they’d seen each other yesterday, as if time hadn’t torn their lives to shreds.
“Hello,” he said softly. “You haven’t changed.”
She gave a bitter smile. “You have.”
“Life.” He shrugged, and in that gesture lay his whole story. “Some get to keep their face. Others just get songs.”
“And what did you get?”
“The road. And a dozen songs no one wants to hear.”
He smiled, but his eyes lacked the boldness that once swept her off her feet. The tune he finished carried notes of trains, partings, and the impossibility of return.
“Do you still sing?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Now I only sing,” he replied, his voice lighter than she remembered. “It’s more honest. No one asks why. No one expects me to be anything else.”
“And that’s enough?”
“Now it is. Before, I was always chasing something bigger. Now I just live.”
They fell quiet. The crowd flowed past; the city hummed, unaware they’d once been bound by a thread—thin and fragile. That she’d waited for him under the lamppost outside her flat, written letters he never read, called out into silence. That he’d vanished without a word, a trace. Just left, as if she’d never been.
“I couldn’t do it any other way,” he said suddenly, gaze drifting away. “Not making excuses. I was just… empty. Broken.”
“And now?”
He looked at his hands, at the guitar strings. Ran a finger over them, and they chimed faintly, like an echo of something distant.
“Now I at least sing. And I don’t run. That’s something, isn’t it?”
She nodded. Slowly. Carefully. Something stirred inside—not pain, not hurt, but something softer, almost weightless. Like an old tune playing again, but no longer pulling her back, no longer bringing tears. A quiet echo in her chest, without the weight she’d carried for years.
“I should go,” she said. “People are waiting.”
He didn’t stop her. Only asked, barely a whisper:
“Maybe a cuppa? Just because. Like before. No past. No promises.”
She looked at him. At the tunnel, the guitar, the eyes still holding the wind of his travels. He’d always been like this—in motion, slightly apart, even when he was close.
“Not today, James,” she replied. “Thanks. I don’t do ‘just a cuppa’ anymore. It always turns into something more.”
And she walked. Step by step, firmer. Not looking back. As if with every stride, she wasn’t leaving him behind, but the version of herself who’d waited, hoped, believed.
Ahead lay bustle, meetings, work, quiet evenings with a book. A life that didn’t stop. One that moved forward, no glances back, no pauses.
Sometimes people return. Not to stay. Just to remind you you’ve already left. And that it was right.
She walked away. And finally felt free.
