The morning was bitingly cold, as if autumn had barged into the city unannounced. Tom packed his things in a silence that grated more sharply than any argument. No shouting, no slamming doors—just the rustle of neatly folded jumpers, the click of a charger pulled from the socket, the creak of a toothbrush case. He paused by the window, staring at the grey courtyard of Manchester. Not to say goodbye—just to memorise the way the light fell on the chipped paint of the frame, how the shadow of the old curtain draped over the sill. Emily was asleep. Or pretending to be. Probably pretending—her breathing was too steady, like someone afraid of being touched.
In the kitchen, he flicked the kettle on. His hands didn’t shake, but inside, everything felt shattered—like glass beads spilling from a snapped string. Not pain, not resentment, just the silence, now a weight too heavy to snap the suitcase shut.
They hadn’t fought. No affairs. No raised voices. They’d just stopped being *them*. Like every day, grain by grain, they’d drifted apart without noticing the chasm between them, echoing with nothing.
“When are you leaving?” Emily asked, appearing in the doorway. Her voice was flat, almost indifferent, as if she were asking about the suitcase in the corner, not him.
“Now,” Tom replied, not looking up. He knew: if he met her eyes, he wouldn’t leave.
She said nothing. He didn’t turn. That silence held everything: *stay*, *go*, *I can’t do this anymore*, *it was supposed to be different*. It hung there, a last thread neither dared grab.
He left the key on the hallway table. Didn’t glance back. The stairwell smelled of damp, other people’s dinners, and morning chaos—doors slamming, dishes clinking. Tom descended like finishing a level in a game he’d played too often: no mistakes, no feeling. Inside, everything was swept clean—empty in a way that unnerved him.
First, he crashed at his mate’s tiny flat on the outskirts. Then rented a room—peeling paint, a bed that groaned with every move. He took up running, not because he liked it, but to drown the hollowness with exhaustion. Shopped at a different supermarket where no one knew his face. Played music too loud, even when he wasn’t listening, just to avoid the quiet. New routes, new habits, new faces. Changed everything he could. But the silence stayed. Every night, it sat beside him, stared into the dark, and refused to let go.
Emily stayed in their flat. With their curtains, his books on the shelf, his mug no one moved. The bathroom shelf untouched, the fridge photo still there. They’d become strangers—no drama, no betrayal. Just because they’d never said the truth. Because each waited for the other to move first.
Three months passed.
They bumped into each other at the chemist’s on a grey midday, the street nearly empty. Tom bought plasters and painkillers. Emily—cough syrup and ointment. Their eyes met, and both froze, as if time had stalled.
“Hi,” he said, quieter than he’d meant.
“Hi,” she replied, studying him. “You’ve lost weight.”
He shrugged. Wanted to joke: *Work, running, not sleeping*. Said nothing. Paid, left first, walking slowly as if it could change anything.
Two days later, he texted. Not a question, just: *Coffee. No talking*. No hope, no expectations. Sent it. She replied almost instantly. Agreed. Short, no fuss. As if she’d been waiting. Or known he’d text.
They met at a little café by the park. It smelled of fresh pastries, coffee, and something indefinably new, still unwrapped. Tom looked at her—not his anymore, but achingly familiar. Emily looked at him—no anger, no blame, but through glass, their old life sealed behind it.
“I thought you’d come back,” she said, calm, like stating the inevitable.
“I waited for you to ask,” he answered, just as even. No hints. No pleas.
They smiled—bitter, but light. Like people who’d figured it all out but didn’t know what to do with it.
Sometimes, what grows between people isn’t a wall. It’s silence. The kind you’re afraid to break. Because in it lies the fear of rejection. Or the truth you’re not ready to hear.
They didn’t say, *Let’s try again*. Didn’t cling, didn’t scramble for words to fix it. Just drank coffee. Slowly. Each in their own quiet. Then left—separate paths. No promises. No glances back.
But an hour later, she texted: *If you ever want to meet again—I wouldn’t mind.*
He replied: *I was about to say the same.*
It wasn’t about love. Or going back. It was about the silence finally feeling lighter. About hearing each other—not in words, but in the pauses where the ache had dulled. And where, just maybe, there was a little room for hope.
