Just Life
When the bus grinds to a halt in the middle of a bustling London street, passengers grip the handrails tighter. Someone mutters under their breath; others press against fogged-up windows, straining to see what’s caused the delay. The air hums with irritation and curiosity. The conductor pushes through to the driver’s cabin, opens the door, and freezes—as if confronted by something utterly out of place on this dreary, drizzling morning.
Outside stands a woman in a faded red coat, clutching a leash in one hand and a broken umbrella in the other. At the end of the leash sits a hulking, shaggy-haired dog, muzzle lowered, paws planted stubbornly on the pavement. He doesn’t growl or whimper—just sits, motionless, as if carved from stone. His ears are flattened, his gaze fixed on the ground. There’s no anger, no fear—just a heavy, unshakable stillness, as though he’s carrying a weight too big for words.
“He won’t move,” the woman says, voice trembling with confusion. “We were walking, and then he just… stopped. I’ve tugged, I’ve called—nothing.”
The driver steps out, eyes flicking between the dog and the woman before crouching down to meet the animal’s gaze. “What’s the matter, mate? Tired? Or just had enough?”
Slowly, the dog lifts its head. His eyes hold a depth of sorrow so human it tightens chests. No bark, no whine—just silence, as if he’s trying to speak but can’t find the words. It isn’t exhaustion. It’s grief, hollow as an echo in an empty house. The driver straightens up, as if understanding the unspoken answer.
Minutes later, the bus moves on. The woman murmurs thanks and coaxes the dog away with soft tugs. He walks reluctantly, each step uncertain, but still—he moves.
Near the window, James whispers to himself, “That’s me. Stuck. Can’t go on.” The words slip out, quiet as a secret too long kept.
He gets off at the next stop, though his flat is miles away. He walks without direction, inertia carrying him past snow-dusted benches and bare trees, past a playground where rusty swings creak like old regrets. He barely feels the wind clawing at his coat.
Home holds no comfort. The flat is hollow, the air untouched by voices or laughter. Only the fridge’s low hum reminds him life goes on—even when yours barely does.
James is forty-three. An engineer, dependable and invisible, like a cog in a machine. The kind who doesn’t complain, doesn’t demand—just does what’s needed. Seventeen years of marriage, two kids, a mortgage, summer holidays at his mother-in-law’s cottage. Then—snap. It all crumbled. His wife left. Said she couldn’t breathe. Said he was a ghost—always there, but never alive. No fight, no plea. Just quiet surrender.
He didn’t argue. Just drove to the woods and sat till dawn, listening to the wind howl through branches. Returned. Grew quieter. Lived by routine: work, bills, weekends with the kids, birthdays, cinema trips. Normal, on the surface. Inside—emptiness, like an abandoned house.
But each day, something tightens in his chest—like a steel band, cinching until it aches. Sometimes, he catches himself struggling to breathe, as if the air’s turned thick, foreign.
Now he walks—just like that dog. Stops. Can’t go on. Not from pain, not fear, just… pointlessness. The same road, the same faces, the same silence at night. He doesn’t want change. Just pause. A moment not to be himself.
He sits on a bench. The air smells of wet earth, pine, something faintly familiar—childhood, maybe. A teenager passes, music blaring from a speaker—a raspy song about heartbreak. Then an elderly couple shuffles by, arms linked, their steps slow but steady, warmth radiating between them. James looks away.
*They’ve all got someone. And I’ve got nothing. And it doesn’t even hurt. Like nothing was ever there.*
“Excuse me.” A voice. “You got a phone? Mine’s dead—need to ring my sister.”
A girl stands before him, maybe eleven, freckled, in a patchy coat and scuffed trainers.
He hands her his phone. She steps away, chats briskly, then returns it.
“Ta. Why’re you sitting here alone?”
“Just resting,” he says, unsure why he explains.
“Right. Only, you look… sad. Our neighbour sits like that when his girlfriend in Manchester won’t text. He’s in love but won’t say. Who’re *you* in love with?”
The question hits like lightning—sudden, sharp. His chest twinges, as if his heart remembers it’s still beating.
“No one. Why’re you out alone?”
“I’m not. Nan’s over there, napping. Went for bread.” She grins. “Don’t be sad, yeah? Mum says when someone sits quiet, they’re sorting stuff out inside. You sorting?”
He nods, almost without thinking.
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’ll be alright then. Cheers!”
She skips off, backpack bouncing like a tiny beacon. James stays. And for the first time in ages, something shifts—not everything, but something vital, like a gear clicking into place.
He stands. Stretches. Breathes deeper. Walks—not faster, but surer, as if his steps mean something again. The wind still nips at his collar, but no longer feels like an enemy.
Nothing’s changed. No miracles, no revelations. Just a day. Just a dog. Just a girl. Life, ordinary as ever. But sometimes—that’s enough to want to keep going.
