That Very Day
It all began with Emily oversleeping. Not just by half an hour—she opened her eyes at quarter to ten, though usually by eight, she was already at the bus stop with a thermos and a groggy stare. Her heart sank instantly, as if someone had yanked the foundation of her routine from under her. Her phone hadn’t charged—the cable, of course, had slipped from the socket overnight. The tap ran dry: scheduled maintenance, which she’d forgotten about. A crash echoed from the kitchen—her favourite mug, the one with *”Keep Going”* written on it, lay in shards. Only silence remained.
The kind of silence that presses down, thick and heavy, until your ears ring. When the house doesn’t just go quiet but exhales. And you do too—not from relief, but because you can’t hold it in any longer.
Of course, Emily was late to work. She burst into the office with tangled hair, no makeup, and a coffee stain on her coat sleeve. Colleagues glanced up. Someone snorted; others pretended to be busy, eyes darting away. Her manager sighed with a look that said Emily had let down the entire world—again. The day unraveled from there, as if someone had tugged a loose thread and everything came apart.
Emily didn’t explain or complain. She just sat at her desk and opened the right folder. But inside, frustration prickled like an itchy jumper—necessary but unbearable. The world seemed to whisper, *You know this isn’t how it should be.*
At lunch, the school called: her son had clashed with his teacher. A stern warning, demands for a written explanation, threats of formal action. Then a text from the bank: her card had been declined. Minutes later, a neighbour sent a photo—*”Is this yours?”*—a damp stain spreading across her ceiling like a slow, creeping wound.
By evening, Emily sat on the cold front steps of her building. Her tights clung to her legs; her fingers were numb. Shoulders slumped, her bag gaping open like an exhausted soul. The day hadn’t just gone wrong—it had tested her, pressing bruises she didn’t know she had.
Then a girl stopped beside her. Small, thin, with an oversized backpack and glasses askew.
“Auntie, are you really sad?”
Emily looked up. She meant to brush it off, stay silent—but couldn’t. The question was honest. Uncomplicated.
“I am,” she admitted.
The girl sat down. She pulled out a slightly bruised apple from her bag, wiped it clean, and offered it with both hands.
“Mum says if someone’s sad, you share. Even if it’s just a little. Even if it’s an apple.”
Emily took it. Bit in. Sweet, with a hint of tartness. It smelled like early September and school assemblies. Something in her chest loosened—not the pain, just the noise. It faded.
“Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Lucy. And you?”
“Emily.”
“Don’t worry, Emily. It’ll get better. Just not right now.”
Emily nodded. Just slightly, but with the ghost of a smile.
Lucy stood, adjusted her backpack, and walked away. She didn’t look back, moving like she knew she’d done enough. Emily watched her go. Somewhere inside, a tiny flame flickered to life.
She stood. 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 warmth mattered first.
Then she filled the cat’s bowl. Swept the floor. Gathered the broken mug. Simple motions, but for the first time that day—they meant something.
The next morning, Emily bought a new mug. Red. Bold, like a promise. And a wind-up alarm clock—its soft ticking a whisper: *You’re alive. Time moves—and so do you.*
Sometimes everything falls apart quietly, along the seams. Then—it stitches itself back together. Not the same way, not with the same pieces. But it does. With an apple. With a child’s voice. With the moment you finally decide: *Enough. It’s time to breathe.*
