**That Very Day**
It all started because Emily slept in. Not just by half an hour—her eyes flicked open at a quarter to ten, when she was usually already at the bus stop by eight, clutching her thermos with bleary determination. Her stomach dropped as if the ground beneath her had vanished. Her phone hadn’t charged—the charger had slipped from the socket overnight. The tap ran dry: scheduled maintenance, which she’d forgotten, of course. Then a crash in the kitchen—her favourite mug, the one that said *Keep Going*, lay in shards on the tile. All that remained were fragments and silence.
The thick, suffocating kind of silence that rings in your ears. When the house doesn’t hum but exhales. And so do you—not with relief, but because you can’t hold it in any longer.
Naturally, Emily was late. She rushed into the office, hair tangled, no makeup, a coffee stain streaking her coat sleeve. Colleagues glanced up. Someone snorted. Others pretended to be busy. Her manager sighed like Emily had once again failed the entire world. And the day unravelled from there—like a pulled thread, everything coming undone.
She didn’t explain or complain. Just sat at her desk, clicked open the right folder. But inside, frustration itched like a thin jumper you have to wear but can’t stand touching your skin. The world seemed to whisper, *This isn’t how it’s meant to be. You know that.*
At lunch, the school called—her son had clashed with a teacher. Threats of meetings, formal letters, talk of escalation. Then a text from the bank: card declined, last payment bounced. Next, a message from the neighbour with a photo: *Is this yours?* A water stain bloomed across the ceiling like a wound slowly seeping into the fabric of her life.
By evening, Emily sat on the cold steps outside her building. Tights clung to her legs, fingers numb. Shoulders slumped, bag gaping open like an exhausted soul. The day hadn’t just gone wrong—it had pressed into her like a thumb on a bruise, testing how much she could bear.
Then a girl stopped beside her. Small, thin, with a backpack too big for her and glasses slightly askew.
*”Miss, are you really sad?”*
Emily looked up. Meant to brush it off, say nothing—but couldn’t. The question was honest, uncomplicated. No judgement.
*”Yes,”* she admitted.
The girl sat down. Dug into her backpack and pulled out an apple—slightly dented, but clean. Held it out with both hands.
*”Mum says if someone’s sad, you share. Even if it’s only a little. Even if it’s just an apple.”*
Emily took it. Bit in. Sweet with a hint of tartness. It smelled like early September, like school assemblies. Something inside her loosened—not pain, just noise. Quieted.
*”Thank you. What’s your name?”*
*”Alice. What’s yours?”*
*”Emily.”*
*”Don’t worry, Emily. It’ll be alright. It’s just not alright now.”*
Emily nodded. Faintly, but with the ghost of a smile.
Alice stood, adjusted her backpack, and walked off. Didn’t look back. Walked fast, like she knew she’d done all she needed to. Emily watched her go. A strange warmth flickered in her chest, as if someone had lit a tiny candle inside.
She got up. Went back inside. Shrugged off her coat. Called her son—not to scold, just to ask how he was. Said *sorry*, though she wasn’t sure for what. Just wanted to say something kind first.
Then she filled the cat’s water bowl. Swept the floor. Picked up the broken mug. Simple things—but for the first time that day, they meant something.
The next morning, Emily bought a new mug. Red. Bright as a promise. And a wind-up alarm clock—soft 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. Then—somehow—it stitches itself back together. Not the same hands, not the same pieces. But it does.
With an apple.
With a child’s voice.
With the moment you decide—enough. Time to breathe.
