**Quiet, As It Is**
When Emily said, “I’m tired of staying quiet,” she didn’t raise her voice. She just set her fork down, gazed out the window, and said it—calmly, matter-of-factly. The way someone might say, “Time to take out the rubbish” or “Forgot to buy milk.” No drama, but the room went silent anyway, as if someone had pressed mute.
James glanced up from his phone but didn’t register it at first. He heard her words, but the meaning trickled in slowly, like sound underwater. He looked at her, then back at his screen—like there was a pane of glass between them, smudged and unreadable.
“What d’you mean?”
“Us. The way we live. Quiet.”
He didn’t answer. Went back to his phone. The thought flickered: *here we go again*. Except there was no “again.” She’d been silent for ages. Longer than he cared to admit. He knew, but pretended not to notice. Easier that way. No arguments. No awkward pauses. But now the pause had stretched into something permanent.
They’d lived together seven years. There’d been trips, stupid fights, bad telly nights, mates popping round, weekends spent redecorating. They’d bickered over nothing, made up at midnight over tea, shared a slice of cake, laughed at the same nonsense jokes. And then—like someone turned the volume down. Not all at once. Bit by bit. First, they stopped listening. Then they stopped talking. Stopped texting during the day. Stopped asking, “How was your shift?” Just… existed. Clean kitchen, kettle on, bills stacked neatly. Flavourless. No reasons. No “us.”
“I don’t hear myself here, James,” she said, still staring out the window. “Like I’m not even real.”
He wanted to say something important. 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 out loud. But the words stuck. Not because he didn’t care—but because he hadn’t spoken them in so long, he’d forgotten the sound of his own voice.
Emily stood, placed her mug in the sink. Pulled on her jacket. Took her keys. Left. He didn’t stop her. Wasn’t even sure if he should. And that was the worst part. Not her footsteps fading, not the latch clicking shut—but how easy it was. Like losing something vital barely mattered at all.
Outside, the pavement crunched underfoot, crisp as a film set. People hurried past, eyes fixed ahead. Emily paused at a crossing and, for the first time in ages, felt present. Not in the right place—just *here*. Not in memories or what-ifs. Just stillness. A quiet like her body had finally caught up with her.
That night, she didn’t go to her sister’s or her mum’s. Just wandered, turning where her feet took her. Ended up in the bakery she and James used to visit. Bought a poppy-seed bun. Sat by the window, still in her coat. The air smelled of cinnamon, vanilla, something half-remembered. For the first time in years, she didn’t want to dissect or explain. Just wanted to sit. Alone. No role to play. No audience.
James texted two days later. No grand gesture. Just: *You alright?* Like it was habit, not longing. She replied: *Getting on.* No full stop. No fuss. Just fact. He didn’t message again. She didn’t wait. Not because she didn’t care—but because for once, waiting felt optional.
Two weeks passed. Then a month. She rented a flat on the outskirts, big windows overlooking a car park where seagulls squabbled at dawn. Started walking in the mornings—not because she should, just because her legs wanted to move. Began scribbling three lines a day in a notebook. Not about feelings. Just… what she saw. Who smiled. Where was quiet. The cashier’s chipped nail polish. The smell of rain on the bus. A way to stay in the moment, where everything was new. No autopilot. No James.
Sometimes she thought of him. Not angrily. Not sadly. Just… as someone she’d once breathed in sync with. Shared films with, laughed at the same daft adverts. Then each started staring at separate screens. What they were. What they became. What ended. No fireworks. No final scene. No big speeches. Just… how things go. Like a song fading out when no one hits *repeat*. Quiet, as it is.
Sometimes, it’s not about *come back* or *understand* or *listen*. Sometimes, it’s just about stopping, waiting for someone else to speak for you. And starting to say it yourself. Even if it’s shaky. Even if it takes time. But out loud. So you remember your own voice. So you remember you’re here.
