One of those days when nothing aches—but everything weighs heavy.
By the bus stop near the old market in Sheffield, a woman stood smoking, shielding the flame from the brisk wind with her palm. Her other arm clutched a worn canvas bag, sagging heavily at the bottom—as if weighed down not by belongings but by lingering worries. She stood at the very edge of the pavement, guarding that square of ground like the one steady fragment in a blurred and shifting world.
Her name was Eleanor. She was forty-eight, though she looked younger—her narrow face sharp at the cheekbones, hair twisted carelessly into a bun. Her eyes were bright, but beneath them lay a faint bluish tint, the kind that comes not from sleepless nights but from the slow absence of warmth, care, or anything resembling wonder.
Inside, she wasn’t broken—just tired. Tired of identical days blurring together, of the shrill morning alarm, of hollow phrases like “Fine, thanks” and “Same as always” that she used to mask the truth. Tired of evenings that all ended the same: silent, unasked questions, an empty space beside her. Tired of having to piece herself together each morning just to get through another day.
She woke at seven. The house creaked as her son, Oliver, hurried off to college. A muttered “Morning” was all he spared before vanishing without a glance toward the kitchen. She lay still for another moment, staring at the cracked ceiling, then rolled out of bed.
At the mirror—just her face. No anger, no joy, not even irritation. Just features. She drank her coffee leaning against the counter, tugged on her coat, grabbed her bag, and left. The day didn’t start; it merely resumed where yesterday left off.
Today meant a trip into town—collecting paperwork, a rushed visit to the neurologist, and, if she was lucky, finding Oliver a new jacket. The pavement was slick with rain. People bustled past as she walked, clutching her bag like a shield. On the way, she bought two potato pasties—ate one, tucked the other into a napkin for the homeless man who usually sat by the underpass. He wasn’t there today. She left it on the bench anyway. Just in case.
The doctor’s waiting room was full—four elderly women chattering about blood pressure, allotments, and, of course, the tiny consulting room where “that poor doctor must be suffocating.” Eleanor sat by the wall, scrolling through headlines. Explosions, deaths, tragedies that belonged to strangers, glossy smiles that didn’t. Lives nothing like hers. She locked her phone. Not because it was too much—just because none of it mattered.
The neurologist muttered about “autonomic dysfunction” and “rest.” She nodded, pretending to listen, but all she could think was: Where’s the place where I can just stop? No pretending, no holding it together. Just vanishing for a day.
Outside, the air had turned colder. Wind slipped under her collar. She bought a takeaway coffee, sipping it slowly, as though it were the last trace of warmth. In the park, she sat on a bench—bag pressed to her side, breath misting into her scarf.
A man sat beside her. Mid-fifties, perhaps. Tired eyes, slumped shoulders. Without looking at her, he said quietly,
“Bit nippy out. Still don’t fancy going home.”
She wasn’t even surprised. As if he’d plucked the thought from her. They talked—about work, about meals, about how oddly life twists. He was a night security guard at a supermarket; his wife had gone to stay with their daughter and likely wouldn’t return. Letters came less often now. He didn’t open them anymore.
She worked at the post office. Lived with her mother, who forgot names, dates, sometimes even her own reflection. At night, she wandered the house calling for Eleanor’s father—five years gone. They spoke calmly, almost casually, as if discussing the weather instead of the weight they carried.
They fell silent. Drank their coffees. The wind tugged at his coat. Then he stood and, almost shyly, said,
“Mind if I remember you?”
“Not at all. Just don’t get me mixed up with someone else.”
He smiled for the first time.
“Won’t. Just nice to know someone’s out here. Not on a screen. Not in some headline. Just real.”
He walked away without turning. She watched until he dissolved into the grey.
At home, Oliver returned late. She reheated dinner, asked about his day. He shrugged, thumbing through his phone. Then, abruptly, looked up.
“How was yours?”
The spoon stilled in her hand. Four simple words, yet something flickered inside.
“Just another day,” she said slowly.
He nodded. Didn’t look away right after. A small thing. But in her world—where days passed like carbon copies—it meant something.
Later, lying in the dark, she wondered if someone, somewhere, was thinking of that bench, the coffee, the quiet moment where kindness slipped in like a stranger taking a seat.
And somehow, that thought was enough. Not a miracle. Just an anchor. Enough to get up tomorrow. And step into the next day—whichever one it might be.
