**Finding My Way Back**
That evening, she realised her husband was lying. Not by his tone, not by his words—but by his silence. Edward always knew how to stay quiet with dignity: a long pause, a gaze drifting sideways, a faint shadow of weariness on his face. It could have passed for contemplation, for depth. But tonight, it was different—fragile, sharp, like a mask with something raw and restless trembling beneath.
“Late again,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes, his voice faltering as if hitting an unseen wall.
“Where were you?” she asked softly, almost whispering. There was no accusation, no suspicion—just the slightest touch of something that had been gnawing at her for a long time.
“At work. With James. Went over the project. You know how it is.”
She did know. But she also knew James had flown to Cornwall with his wife and kids. She’d seen his holiday snaps, heard his laughter in voice notes. She didn’t press him. Didn’t argue. Everything was suddenly crystal clear.
“Of course,” she replied, clearing a mug from the table. The motion was too smooth, almost automatic—like someone who’d seen more than they wanted to.
Later, they went to bed as usual—backs turned. He fell asleep quickly, even snored, as if nothing had changed. But she lay awake, staring into the dark, feeling something thick and heavy settle in her chest—not jealousy, not fear, but a slow, stifling understanding. It wasn’t sudden—more like a quiet nod to the inevitable, as if a voice inside whispered, *There it is. Now you know.*
The next day, she booked a ticket to York. No plan, no reason. Told Edward she was visiting her sister. He nodded too quickly, relief flickering before he could hide it. That her absence didn’t unsettle him only strengthened her resolve.
York greeted her with biting wind and the damp scent of pavement. The city felt half-asleep, reluctant to stir. She rented a room from an elderly woman with tired eyes and a voice worn thin by time. From the window, she could see bare trees and a peeling wall where someone had scrawled, *Live while your heart beats.*
For three days, she wandered. No calls, no messages. Her phone stayed silent in her bag, like an unwanted trinket. She drank coffee in little cafés that smelled of cinnamon and solitude—the warm, comforting kind that wraps around you instead of stinging. She watched people—those rushing, laughing, carrying shopping bags, waiting for someone. In every face, she caught glimpses of herself—the woman she’d once been, bright-eyed, open-hearted, believing in tomorrow.
On the fourth morning, she woke lighter, as if shedding an old skin. Her body felt weightless, rested not just from sleep but from years. She stepped outside, clutching a paper cup of coffee. The morning was hushed, no promises, yet brimming with life. And then it struck her: *You don’t have to go back. You don’t have to be who they expect. You can just be you.*
She could go further—not to Paris or New York, but to Bristol, Bath, Newcastle. Places where no one knew her name, where no questions followed. Just keep moving until the past blurred into nothing. Until all that remained was herself—no roles, no “wife,” no “sister,” no masks, no borrowed expectations. Just a woman. Alive. With her own mistakes, fears, dreams.
At the station, she bought a ticket to Manchester. Then another to Liverpool. After that—wherever the road led. She slept on trains, forehead pressed to cold glass. Ate pasties on platforms. Drank tea from paper cups. Scribbled thoughts in a notebook—fragments of memories, stray lines. Read Auden, reread Plath, underlined verses that struck deep. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes laughed. Sometimes just gazed out the window, feeling lighter with every stop, shedding what wasn’t hers.
Forty-two days later.
She returned to London in early April. The flat smelled of dust and forgotten years, like an abandoned museum. Everything was where it should be, yet faded—the curtains, the dishes, the books on the shelf. Edward sat at the kitchen table as if he hadn’t moved the whole time. Same look. Same pauses. Same shadows in his eyes, as if time had frozen here.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked with that familiar hesitation, the kind that always hid deceit.
“Looking for myself,” she answered. “And I think I found her.”
He fell silent. His hands lay stiff on the table. But she didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t wait for anything.
That night, she packed a suitcase. Slowly, without hurry. Took only clothes, books, an old photo album. The rest—the dishes, the curtains, the resentment, the guilt—none of it was hers. It stayed behind.
She hadn’t left him. She’d left *for* herself. For the place where she could breathe freely. Where her voice didn’t waver. Where she was, finally, just *her*.
Later, there was a new job—simple, but hers. Clear tasks, colleagues who valued her. A small flat overlooking a courtyard where birds sang at dawn and sunset burned in the windows like a gift just for her.
Her voice grew steadier because she didn’t have to hide it anymore. Her laughter came easily, not out of politeness but genuine joy. Light as breathing.
Sometimes she dreamt of him. The same walls, the same kitchen. But even in dreams, her silence was different now—not fear, not weariness. Just calm. The quiet of someone who no longer owed explanations for how she chose to live.
Because the silence didn’t live under her skin anymore. It lived *inside* her—like home. Warm, bright, windows thrown wide open.
This wasn’t running away. It was coming back.
It was the beginning.
