A Shared Morning
I stand before the flat door, keys trembling in my cold fingersoutside, the damp chill has seeped into my bones. The streetlamp casts a dull glow over the puddles by the entrance, the muddy slush stamped with the tread of strangers boots. I pull the door open carefully, trying not to make a sound, and immediately the air inside feels differentwarm, slightly damp, as if the windows been left a crack open despite the radiators blazing.
The hallway greets me with the scent of laundry and something elseperhaps last nights reheated dinner. I drop my bag by the wall, noticing the shoes lined up differently than I remember. On the coat rack, her scarf hangs over my old jacket. Everythings in its place, yet as I kick off my shoes, its obviousthis order was arranged without me. She steps out from the kitchen, offering a tight smile. Dinner wont take long, she says. I reply just as carefully. Our voices skate over the surface, both of us listeningto each other, to ourselvesafraid to nudge anything important.
The rooms half-dark. Outside, streetlamps paint faint streaks on the walls. She flicks on the desk lamp. I glance around: the books have shifted, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things sit in a neat pile on the armchair. I feel like both a guest and the man who used to live here. We sit. She slides a plate of pasta and roasted veg toward me. We eat in silence, forks clinking against ceramic. I want to askhow shes been, if she missed mebut the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She mentions a new project, late nights. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up; I unpack, unsure now where my things belong. She steps out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window creak open. The air freshens. We tiptoe around each others habitswhose mug goes where, whose towel hangs where. By bedtime, weve claimed our halves of the mattress. The lights click off in unison, 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, not wanting to keep her waiting. In the kitchen, I hunt for tea and find two mismatched mugs. Which one? I ask. Either, she says. But theres a trap in that answer. I brew her black tea, mine green. She nudges the sugar bowl closer to her side without comment. We eat toast by the window, watching the sleet smear the glass. I steal glancesher eyes tired, lips pressed thin.
We leave together, colliding at the mirror in the hall, both fumbling for keys. She waits on the landing. The lift hums downward, the muffled rumble of London rising beneath us.
That evening, we trudge to the Tesco, shoes squelching in the wet pavement. Inside, the fluorescent lights sting. Milk, bread, apples, something for tea, she recites. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. Not again. We bicker over pints versus litres, whether yoghurts needed. Each clings to their opinion a beat too long.
At checkout, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to rummage for her card. I paythe awkward silence stretching all the way to the exit. On the walk back, were too tired to talk.
Home again, we unpack in silence: I leave the bread on the table; she moves it to the counter. Both of us grasping for control where there isnt any.
Later, I work at the laptop; she reads under a blanket on the sofa. Dusk lingers outside. Any plans for the weekend? she asks, voice light but cautious. I hedgetruth is, I dont know.
Dinners a joint effort: she chops veg with quick, sharp motions; I boil potatoes and fry chicken. We avoid eye contact, speaking only of food or clearing up.
By lamplight, the tension thickenswarm and heavy. I notice she barely touches the chicken, pushing peas with her fork. I align my cutlery precisely. Rain ticks against the pane.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. Can we talk? Properly? My voice wavers more than my hands as I nod.
Im scared to start over. To mess it up again.
Me too. Losing you. Or not fitting here anymore.
We talk for hoursabout the time apart, the unspoken hurts, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of pretending even at home, the nights spent wondering.
No blamejust honesty about how hard it is to rebuild, how much still aches.
She says, I want to try. But if you walk out now, I wont stop you.
I say, Im here. That means Im staying.
After, the kitchen feels less foreign. She stacks plates; I take the fork from her hand and scrub under the tap. Our fingers brushmaybe accidental, maybe not. Washing up togethers easier than arguing about whose turn it is. I pass her wet dishes; she dries them, not meeting my eye. But the space between us isnt brittle anymore.
In the living room, I crack the windowdamp earth air swirling in. She curls up with her book; I pretend to work, thoughts circling her words.
Time slips by. One of us murmurs about tea going cold or the lamps glare. Then quiet again. And somehow, this shared silence feels rightlike theres room for both of us without scripts.
At bedtime, I fetch water; she fills the kettle for chamomile. We stand shoulder to shoulder, steam rising. She pours my cup firstthe black teas long gonethen hers. We cradle them, warmth seeping into our palms.
In bed, she offers a small smile before turning away. The gap between us doesnt feel like distance now.
Morning arrives softly. Pale light filters through the curtainsfirst clear dawn in weeks. We wake in sync, listening to the drip from the gutter, the distant growl of traffic.
She rolls over. Put the kettle on? No edge in her voicejust quiet warmth.
Sure.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettleit lives nearer the hob now. She takes down two mugs without hesitation, sets the sugar between us like its always been there.
While the water boils, she wipes the tablerain scent still clingingand I pick tea bags. I raise a brow: green or black? A faint smile. Green today. I brew both strongno debate now.
We sit by the window, chairs no longer assigned. Outside, the last slush melts, droplets pattering the sill. Breakfast passes wordlessly: I slice bread thin, the way she likes; she takes a whole apple instead of half. Our reflections blur in the glassher face beside mine. This, I realise, is what new closeness looks like: tiny, unremarkable shifts in a shared morning.
She clears her plate swiftly; I linger by the window, listening to the drip-drip, the cool air on my cheeks. Then her hand rests on my shoulder, light but sure.
Thanks.
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Or just thisthis fragile, ordinary beginning?
We dont ask. The smiles are enough, this quiet understanding of a rhythm relearned.
