Quiet as It Is
When Emily said, “I’m tired of keeping quiet,” she didn’t raise her voice. She just set her fork down, glanced out the window, and said it—calmly, almost casually. Like you’d say, “Time to take out the bins,” or “Forgot to buy milk.” No drama, but the room went dead silent, like someone had hit mute.
James looked up from his phone but didn’t clock it right away. He heard her words, but the meaning lagged, like sound traveling across water. He stared at her, then back at his screen—like there was a pane of glass between them, blurring everything.
“What d’you mean?”
“Us. The way we live. Quietly.”
He didn’t reply. Just dropped his eyes to the screen again. The thought flickered: *Here we go.* Except there *was* no “here we go.” She’d been quiet for ages. Too long. And he knew it but pretended not to. Easier that way. No rows. No awkward pauses. Only now, the pause felt permanent.
They’d been together seven years. Had it all: trips, spats, cheesy films, mates, flat renovations. They’d bickered over nothing, made up over midnight toast, split cakes down the middle, finished each other’s daft jokes. Then—like someone turned the volume down. Not all at once. Bit by bit. First, they stopped listening. Then stopped saying. Stopped ringing each other midday. Stopped asking, “How was your day?” Then just… existed. Clean kitchen, kettle on, bills on the counter. Tasteless. Pointless. No “us.”
“I don’t hear myself anymore, Jamie,” she said, still staring outside. “Like I’m not even here.”
He wanted to say something big. That he *did* hear her. That it wasn’t like that. That he was just knackered, just busy. That he loved her, just forgot how to say it. But the words wouldn’t come. Not ‘cause he didn’t love her—but ‘cause he’d stopped speaking aloud. And forgot how to listen.
Emily stood, slid her mug into the sink. Pulled on her coat. Grabbed her keys. Left. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even know if he *should*. And that was the worst part. Not her steps to the door, not the click of the lock—but how *easy* it was. No shouting. No “stay.” Too easy, like nothing important was slipping away.
She walked down the street, pavement crisp underfoot like a film set. People rushed past, eyes ahead. At the crossing, she paused—and for the first time in ages, felt *present*. Not “where I should be,” just *here*. Not in the past, not in her head. A weird, quiet calm, like her body’d finally caught up with her soul.
That night, she didn’t go to her best mate’s or her mum’s. Just wandered, turning wherever her feet took her. Ended up at the bakery she and James used to love. Bought a cinnamon bun. Sat by the window, coat still on. Smelled sugar, yeast, something half-remembered. And for the first time in forever, she didn’t want to dissect, explain, or justify. Just wanted to *be*. For herself. No role. No audience.
James texted two days later. No fuss. Just: *You alright?* Like it was nothing, like habit, not longing. She replied: *Getting on*. No full stop. No emotion. Just that. He didn’t text again. And she didn’t wait. Not ‘cause she didn’t want to—but ‘cause she finally felt it: *you don’t have to*.
Two weeks passed. Then a month. She rented a flat on the outskirts, big windows overlooking a car park where gulls squawked at dawn. Started morning walks—not ‘cause she had to, but ‘cause her body craved motion. Began scribbling three lines a day in a notebook. Not about feelings. Just—what she saw. Who smiled. Where it was quiet. The cashier’s chipped nail polish. How the bus smelled of rain. Her way of staying *here*, where everything felt new, unlearned, without James.
Sometimes she thought of him. No anger. No ache. Just—someone she’d once breathed in sync with. Watched the same telly, laughed at the same dumb stuff. Then they’d each started watching their own screens. What *was*. What *became*. And ended. No grand scene. No final line. Just… how things go. Like a song fading in a room when no one hits *repeat*. Quiet as it is.
Sometimes what you need isn’t “come back,” “understand,” or “listen.” Sometimes it’s just—stop waiting for someone to speak *for* you. And start speaking *yourself*. Even shaky. Even slow. But out loud. To hear yourself again. To *be*.
