**That Very Day**
It all began with Emily oversleeping—not just by half an hour, but by a full hour and a half. She woke at quarter to ten, when she’d usually be at the bus stop by eight, thermos in hand, eyes still heavy with sleep. Her stomach dropped as if the ground had been yanked from beneath her. Her phone was dead—the charger had slipped from the socket overnight. The tap ran dry: scheduled maintenance, which she’d forgotten about entirely. Then came the crash from the kitchen—her favourite mug, the one that read *Keep Going*, lay shattered. Only shards and silence remained.
That heavy, smothering silence where the air hums in your ears. When the house doesn’t creak but exhales. And you exhale too—not from relief, but because you can’t hold it in any longer.
She was late to work, of course. Burst into the office with tangled hair, no makeup, and a sleeve dirtied from a stumble on the pavement. Colleagues glanced up. One snorted, another pretended to be busy. Her manager sighed like Emily had personally disappointed the universe. The rest of the day unravelled like a pulled thread—messy, jagged, impossible to fix.
Emily didn’t explain or complain. Just sat at her desk, opened the right folder. But inside, she itched with frustration, like wearing a jumper that’s just a bit too tight—necessary but unbearable. The world seemed to whisper: *This isn’t how it’s meant to be. You know that.*
After lunch, the school called: her son had clashed with a teacher. Threats of meetings, demands for written statements. Then came the bank alert—her card declined, balance in the red. Finally, a text from her neighbour with a photo: *Is this yours?* A water stain on the ceiling, spreading like a bruise across the skin of her life.
By evening, Emily sat on the cold front steps, tights sticking to her legs, fingers numb. Shoulders slumped, handbag gaping open like a weary heart. The day hadn’t just gone wrong—it had pressed on her like a thumb digging into a fresh bruise.
Then a girl stopped beside her. Small, skinny, with a backpack too big for her and glasses slightly askew.
*”Miss, you’re really sad, aren’t you?”*
Emily looked up. Meant to brush her off, say nothing, but couldn’t. The question was soft, uncomplicated. No judgement.
*”I am,”* she admitted.
The girl sat down. Pulled an apple from her bag—a bit dented but clean—and held it out with both hands.
*”Mum says if someone’s sad, you share. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s just an apple.”*
Emily took it. Bit in. Sweet, with a hint of tartness. The taste smelled like early September, like school assemblies. Something loosened in her chest. Not the pain—just the noise. It quietened.
*”Thank you. What’s your name?”*
*”Charlotte. And you?”*
*”Emily.”*
*”Don’t worry, Emily. It’ll be alright again. Just not right now.”*
Emily nodded. Almost imperceptibly, but there was the ghost of a smile.
Charlotte stood, adjusted her backpack, and walked off. Didn’t look back. Moved with purpose, as if she knew she’d done what mattered. Emily watched her go. Somewhere in her ribs, a small flame flickered to life.
She stood. Went back inside. Hung up 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 warm first.
Then she filled the cat’s water bowl. Swept the floor. Collected the broken mug. Simple things, but for the first time that day, done with quiet resolve.
The next morning, Emily bought a new mug. A bright red one—bold as a promise. And a wind-up alarm clock, its gentle ticking a whisper: *You’re still here. Time moves, and so do you.*
Sometimes everything doesn’t break loudly—just quietly, along the seams. And then, somehow, it reassembles. Not with the same hands, not 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.*
