Just Life
When the bus lurched to a stop in the middle of a bustling London street, passengers gripped the handrails tighter. Someone cursed under their breath; another pressed their face against the fogged-up window, straining to see the cause. The air hummed with irritation and curiosity. The conductor pushed toward the driver’s cabin, swung the door open—then froze, as if staring at something that didn’t belong in the damp, grey dawn of Manchester.
Outside stood a woman in a frayed red jacket, clutching a leash in one hand and a broken umbrella in the other. At the end of the leash was a dog—massive, shaggy, its head hung low. It sat motionless in front of the bus, paws rooted to the asphalt, ears pinned back, gaze fixed on the ground. No growl, no fear—just a heavy, stubborn stillness, as if it carried a weight too deep for words.
“He won’t move,” the woman said, her voice frayed with helplessness. “We were walking, and then—he just sat. I pulled, I called—nothing.”
The driver stepped out, eyeing the dog, then the woman, then the dog again. He crouched, meeting its eyes.
“What’s the matter, mate? Tired? Or life got you down?”
The dog lifted its muzzle slowly. Its gaze held a sorrow so human, the breath caught in every onlooker’s throat. It didn’t whine or snap—just stared, as if trying to tell a story too heavy for barks. This wasn’t exhaustion. This was pain, hollow as an empty house. The driver stood, as though he’d heard the answer in the silence.
Minutes later, the bus rolled on. The woman, murmuring thanks, tugged the dog away. It moved slowly, uncertainly, each step a fight—but moving all the same.
By the window, Thomas Brentwood whispered to himself, “That’s me. Stopped. Can’t go on.” The words slipped out like an overdue confession, one he’d carried too long.
He got off at the next stop, though he was miles from his flat. He walked without direction, the wind slapping his face, sneaking under his collar. He hardly felt it. His feet carried him through a snow-dusted park, past skeletal trees and a playground where rusted swings groaned like old regrets.
Home was worse. The flat reeked of absence—not just empty, but hollow. The fridge’s hum was the only proof life still lurked there, even if his barely did.
Thomas was forty-three. An engineer—reliable, invisible, a cog in the machine. The sort who didn’t shout or demand, just did what was needed. Not a hero. Not a martyr. Just a man. Seventeen years of marriage. Two kids. A mortgage. Holidays at his mother-in-law’s cottage. Then—the crack. His wife left. Said she was suffocating. Said he was a ghost: present but never alive. She walked out without a fight, but with a finality that left no room for questions.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t beg. Just drove to the moors and sat until dawn, listening to the wind howl through the heather. He returned quieter. Lived by routine: work, bills, weekends with the kids, birthdays, cinema tickets. Everything normal. Everything empty.
But the weight grew. A steel band around his ribs, tightening daily—first a dull pressure, then a crush. Sometimes he’d catch himself gasping, like the air had turned to tar.
Now he walked like that dog. Stopped. Couldn’t go on. Not from pain, not from fear—just the sheer pointlessness of it. The same streets. The same silence. He didn’t want change. Just a pause—to stop being himself for a breath.
He sank onto a park bench. The air smelled of wet earth and pine, faintly of something lost—childhood, maybe. A teenager passed, blasting a raspy love song from a speaker. An elderly couple shuffled by, the woman steadying the man, their slow steps woven with such tenderness Thomas looked away.
He thought, *Everyone has someone. Something. I’ve got nothing. And it doesn’t even hurt. Like there was never anything to lose.* The realization settled, numb as a verdict long accepted.
“Excuse me?” A voice cut through. “D’you have a phone? Mine’s dead, and I need to call my sister.”
A girl stood before him—eleven, maybe. Faded jacket, freckled cheeks, a scuffed backpack dangling from one hand.
“Sure.” He handed her his mobile.
She stepped aside, spoke briskly into it, then returned.
“Thanks.” She tilted her head. “Why’re you sitting here alone?”
“Just resting,” he lied, unsure why he bothered.
“Hmm. You look… sad. My neighbour sits like that when his girlfriend in Bristol ignores him. He’s in love but won’t say. Who’re you in love with?”
The question struck like lightning—sudden, precise. His chest clenched, as if his heart remembered it could still feel.
“No one. Why’re you out alone?”
“I’m not. Gran’s napping over there. I went for bread.” She flashed a grin. “Don’t be sad, alright? Mum says when someone sits quiet like this, they’re sorting things out inside. You sorting?”
He nodded, almost involuntarily.
“Yeah.”
“Then it’ll be alright. Cheers!”
She darted off, her backpack bouncing like a tiny beacon. Thomas stayed. And for the first time in years, he felt something shift—not everything, but enough, like a gear clicking into place.
He stood. Stretched. Breathed deeper than he had in months. And walked—not fast, but steadier, as if his steps had found purpose. The wind still bit, but it no longer felt like an enemy.
Nothing had changed. No revelations. No miracles. Just a day. Just a dog. Just a girl. Life, ordinary as ever.
But sometimes, that’s enough to make you want to keep living.
