The air feels heavy from the moment she wakes. The flat isn’t just quiet—it’s tense, sticky, like the hush before a storm. Not the silence of peace, but a nervous nothingness that makes fingers tremble. Even the kettle boils timidly, as if afraid to break the fragile line between this world and the next. Emily stands barefoot in the kitchen, damp-haired, wearing an old grey vest, unable to remember why she woke at seven. No alarm. Just opened her eyes—and knew: something has shifted.
On the table lies a postcard. No envelope, just wedged between a half-drunk cup of herbal tea and a pack of oatcakes. As if tossed there in passing. The handwriting is painfully familiar—neat, precise, without flourishes. Just like the way James signed birthday cards: restrained, but with quiet warmth in every stroke.
*Emily. I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay. Don’t look for me. — J.*
She doesn’t touch it. Just stares. Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. As if this slip of paper is a threshold—cross it, and her life will shatter. Then she flicks on the radio. The presenter chirps about traffic on the M25 as if nothing has happened. As if the world hasn’t lost someone. The one who breathed beside her every morning.
James must have left at night. She decides this because she heard no footsteps, no click of the door, no scrape of the lock. Just an empty peg in the hall. His grey woollen scarf still hangs there. He didn’t even take his umbrella—the one with the wooden handle and navy trim. Emily studies it, willing it to answer questions she can’t put into words.
She tries to remember the last time they spoke honestly. Not about bins or shopping lists—really talked. Probably last April, on a bench by the pond. James had murmured, “It’s hard to breathe with you sometimes.” She’d laughed it off. Maybe he was saying goodbye.
Two weeks pass. The postcard remains on the table. Sometimes she blows dust from it, careful not to smudge the ink. Sometimes she imagines the paper warms when she leans close—as if the letters hold something alive: a remnant of love, hope, or the words she missed before.
Then—a knock. Sharp. The postman. Just another day, but her hands shake. The sender’s name on the slip: J. Harrison.
Inside, a letter. And a train ticket. The 15:14 to York. The paper is creased, as if carried for weeks. At the bottom, his hand:
*If you can come, do. If not, I won’t stop you. Just say so. I don’t know any other way. But I still know how to wait.*
Emily sits right there in the hallway, back against the door. The floor is icy. The best kind of cold—real. Because pain means she’s still alive. She doesn’t cry. Just sits, eyes shut. Something tightens in her chest. Not despair—hope.
Sometimes love doesn’t leave. It just quiets. Hides in old things—the memory of a scent, an umbrella by the door, familiar handwriting. And waits until you’re ready to breathe again. Without fear. Without anger. Just breathe.
Emily rides to the last stop. He’s there. No flowers. No excuses. Just eyes holding nothing but light.
