That Very Day
It all started with Emily oversleeping. Not just by half an hour—she opened her eyes at quarter to ten when she was usually at the bus stop by eight, clutching her thermos with bleary eyes. Her stomach dropped as if someone had yanked the foundations of her routine right from under her. Her phone hadn’t charged—the cable had slipped from the socket overnight, just her luck. The tap was dry: planned maintenance, which she’d forgotten about, of course. In the kitchen—a crack, a clatter—her favourite mug with “Don’t Give Up” written on it lay shattered. Only shards and silence remained.
That heavy, suffocating silence that makes your ears ring. When the house doesn’t make noise—it exhales. And you exhale too, not from relief, but because you can’t hold it in any longer.
Naturally, Emily was late for work. She burst into the office with tangled hair, no makeup, and a coffee stain down her coat sleeve. Her colleagues glanced up. One snorted; others looked away, pretending to be busy. Her manager sighed like Emily had personally let down the whole world. And so the day unravelled—as if someone had tugged a thread and everything came apart.
Emily didn’t make excuses or complain. She just sat at her desk and opened the right folder. But inside, frustration itched like a thin jumper you have to wear even though it’s unbearable. Like the world itself was whispering, “This isn’t how it’s meant to be. You know that.”
After lunch, the school called: her son had argued with his teacher. There was talk of meetings, written statements, even investigations. Then a text from the bank—her card was overdrawn, her last payment declined. And finally, a message from her neighbour with a photo: “Is this yours?” A water stain on the ceiling, spreading like a bruise over the skin of her life.
By evening, Emily sat on the cold steps outside her building. Her tights clung to her legs, her fingers numb. Shoulders slumped, her bag gaping open like an exhausted confession. The day hadn’t just gone wrong—it had tested her, pressing like a thumb on a fresh bruise.
Then a little girl stopped beside her. Small, scrawny, with a too-big backpack and crookedly fastened glasses.
“Miss, you’re really sad, aren’t you?”
Emily looked up. She meant to brush her off, say nothing, but couldn’t. The question was honest—simple. No judgement.
“I am,” she admitted.
The girl sat down, dug into her backpack, and pulled out an apple—a bit bruised but clean. She offered it with both hands.
“Mum says when someone’s sad, you share. Even if it’s just a bit. Even if it’s an apple.”
Emily took it. Bit into it. Sweet with a hint of tartness. The taste reminded her of early September—schoolyard mornings. Something in her chest loosened. Not the pain, just the noise. It quieted.
“Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Sophie. What’s yours?”
“Emily.”
“Don’t worry, Emily. It’ll be alright. Just not right now.”
Emily nodded. Barely, but with the ghost of a smile.
The girl stood, adjusted her backpack, and walked away. Didn’t look back. Moved quickly, like she knew she’d done what mattered. Emily watched her go. Somewhere inside, a tiny spark flickered to life.
She got up. Went back inside. Took off her coat. Called her son. Not to scold—just to ask how he was. Said “sorry” without even knowing why—just because she wanted to say something warm first.
Then she filled the cat’s water bowl. Swept the floor. Gathered the broken mug. Simple things, but for the first time that day, they had meaning.
The next morning, Emily bought herself a new mug. Red. Bright as a promise. And a wind-up alarm clock—its quiet ticking like a whisper: *You’re alive. Time moves—and so do you.*
Sometimes everything falls apart not with a crash, but along the seams. And then—somehow—it comes back together. Not with the same hands, not from the same pieces. But it does. From an apple. From a stranger’s voice. From the moment you finally decide: enough. Time to breathe.
