Im standing outside the flat I havent slept in for months. The keys tremble in my handits damp out, and my fingers have gone stiff with cold. The streetlamp glints in puddles by the door, and the muddy snow is stamped with boot prints. I pull the door open gently, trying not to make noise, and immediately notice the air inside is different. Warm, slightly humid, like someones been airing the place out, but the radiators are still blasting.
The hallway smells of freshly washed laundry and something elseprobably last nights dinner. I drop my bag by the wall and notice the shoes arent arranged the way I left them. Her scarf hangs over my coat on the rack. Everythings almost where it should be, but as I kick off my boots, its clearthis order happened without me. She steps out of the kitchen, offering a tight smile. Says dinner wont take long to heat up. I reply just as carefully. Our voices skim the surface, both of us listening too hard, afraid to bump into something unspoken.
The rooms bathed in twilight. Outside, its already dark, but streetlamps cast shifting shapes on the walls. She clicks on the side lamp. I step further in, scanning the roombooks rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things are stacked neatly on the armchair. I feel like a guest and the owner all at once. We sit at the table. She slides a plate of pasta and roasted veg in front of me. We eat in silence, just the clink of cutlery against ceramic. I want to ask if she missed me, how shes been, but the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She tells me about a new project, how late she was at the office yesterday. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up, I unpack my bag, putting things away while wrestling with the thoughtI dont know where my place is here anymore. She steps out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window click open. The air turns fresher. Were testing boundarieswhose mug goes where, who claims which towel hook. By bedtime, weve settled on opposite sides. The lights go out almost in sync, leaving a strip of cold air between us.
Morning comes early. Im first to the bathroom, listening to her footsteps outside. The pipes groan as the tap runs. I hurry so she wont wait too long. In the kitchen, I hunt for tea and spot two mismatched mugs. I ask which ones mine. «Either,» she says. But it feels like a trick. I make her black tea, myself green. She nudges the sugar bowl closer to her side without a word. We eat breakfast at the small table by the window. Outside, slushy snow patches melt, dripping from the ledge. I steal glancesher eyes are tired, her lips pressed tight.
After breakfast, we get ready to leave. In the hallway, we bump into each other at the mirror, both searching for keys. She steps out first, waiting on the landing. I lock up, hearing her breath beside me. The lift ride down is silent, just the muffled hum of the street below.
That evening, we go to the shop together. Our shoes stick in the wet pavement, sliding on slick patches. At the entrance, we scuff our soles on the mat, taking too long. Inside, the fluorescent lights sting after the dim street. I ask for the shopping list. «Milk, bread, eggs, something for tea,» she says shortly. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frownssays shes sick of pasta. We bicker over small things: how much milk to buy, whether we need yoghurt. Each of us holds our ground a beat too long.
At checkout, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to dig for her card. I paythe awkward silence stretches all the way to the shop door. On the walk back, were both exhausted, barely speaking.
At home, we unpack in silence: I leave the bread on the tables centre; she moves it by the fridge. We both knowwere grasping for control where there isnt any.
Later, I work at the laptop while she reads on the sofa, a blanket pulled to her chin. Dusk lingers outside; weve had the lights on since midday. At one point, she asks about weekend plansvoice calm but cautious. I dodge the question because I dont know either.
We cook dinner together: she chops veg with quick, precise strokes; I boil potatoes and fry chicken. We avoid eye contact, talking only about food or wiping the table.
Eating under the soft glow of the side lampthe overheads been off all daythe tension between us thickens, warm and heavy at once.
I notice she barely touches the chicken, pushing her food around. I align my cutlery mechanically, dead centre. Outside, rain or late snow taps the ledge.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. «Can we talk honestly?» she murmurs.
I nodmy voice shakes worse than my hands.
«Im scared to start over I dont want to mess up again.»
«Me too,» I admit. «Losing you, or realising I dont belong here anymore.»
We talk for hoursabout time apart, unsaid hurts, the fear of rejection, how exhausting it is to play roles even at home, what we each imagined the other was thinking in those lonely nights.
No accusationsjust raw admissions about how hard it is to rebuild bridges, how much pain still lingers.
She says, «I want to try again. But if you walk away now, I wont take you back.»
I tell her, «Im already here. That means I want to stay.»
After that, the kitchen feels differentless cold, less foreign. She clears the plates silently; I stand to help. No questionsI just take the fork from her hand and rinse it under the tap. She sets cups beside me, her fingers brushing my wristmaybe accidental, maybe not. Washing up together is easier than arguing over whose turn it is. I pass her wet plates; she dries them, stacking them away without meeting my eyes. But the tensions gonethat careful distance we kept all day has vanished.
Later, we end up in the lounge. I crack the windowa draught carries the scent of damp earth inside. The sills littered with melting snow and grime, but the airs lighter. She curls up with her book; I open my laptop, though works impossiblemy mind keeps circling back to her words at dinner.
Time slips by. One of us murmurs somethingabout cold tea or the lamp being too brightthen we sink back into silence. And suddenly, this quiet «together» feels rightlike theres finally space for both of us, no roles required.
Before bed, I fetch water from the kitchen. She follows, filling the kettle for herbal tea. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder by the window, watching droplets slide down the pane. She pours boiling water into my cup firstthe black teas long gonethen steeps chamomile for herself. We cradle our mugs, the porcelain warm in our hands.
In the bedroom, she offers a small smile before slipping under the covers. Theres still space between us, but it doesnt feel like a barrier anymore.
Morning arrives unexpectedly softthe first clear dawn in weeks. Pale light seeps through the curtains, unfamiliar after so many grey days.
I wake just as she does. For a moment, we lie still, listening to water drip from the eaves and the distant hum of the street below. I reach for my phone to check the timethen stop. Theres nowhere I need to rush to today, not like before.
She rolls onto her side. «Put the kettle on?» Her voice holds no strainjust weary warmth, something like a smile in it.
«Course,» I reply, just as easy.
We leave the bedroom together. I fill the kettleits nearer the stove now. She pulls down two mugs without hesitation, setting the sugar bowl between us like its always been there.
While the water boils, she wipes the tableit still smells like last nights rainand I pick teabags from the box. I glance at hergreen or black? The corner of her mouth lifts. «Green today.» I nod, brewing both cups strongno more arguments over strength.
We sit by the window, facing each otherfor the first time, it feels natural. Neither chair seems claimed. Outside, the last snow melts fast, the steady drip of water muffled by the cracked pane.
Breakfast passes almost wordless. I slice the bread thin, how she likes it; she takes a whole apple instead of half. Occasionally, our reflections catch in the glassher face beside mineand it hits me: this is what new closeness looks like, a quiet shift in the rhythm of a shared morning.
When we finish, she clears her plate straight away. I linger by the window, listening to the drip of melting snow, feeling the cool air on my cheeks. Then shes beside me, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. «Thanks.»
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Or just because this morning is ours now?
We dont ask. The small smiles are enough, this fragile new order between usbarely there, but real.
