A Shared Morning
I stand outside the flat where I havent spent the night in months. The keys tremble in my handslushy weather outside, fingers long gone numb. Streetlight glows in the puddles by the entrance, dirty snow stamped with boot prints. I pull the door open, careful not to make noise, and the air inside hits medifferent. Warm, slightly damp, like someones been airing it out despite the radiators blasting heat.
The hallway smells of laundry and something elseleftovers, probably. I drop my bag by the wall, noticing the shoes lined up differently from how I remember. Her scarf hangs over my coat on the rack. Everythings in its place, but as I kick off my boots, its obvious: this order wasnt made with me in mind. She steps out of the kitchen, offering a tight smile. *Dinner wont take long to heat up.* I answer just as carefully. Our voices skate over the surface, both of us listeningto each other, to ourselvesafraid to bump into something fragile.
Dusk fills the room. Outside, the streetlamps paint streaks of light on the walls. She switches on the desk lamp. I glance around: books rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things sit in a neat pile on the armchair. I feel like both a guest and the host. We eat in silencepasta with stewed veg, the clink of spoons against ceramic the only sound. I want to ask if she missed me, but the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She tells me about a new project and late nights. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up; I unpack, unsure where my things belong now. She steps out, and I hear the kitchen window creak open. The air shifts, fresher. Were testing boundarieswhere a mug can go, whose towel hangs where. By bedtime, we each claim a side. The light flicks off almost in unison, a strip of cold air between us.
Morning comes too soon. Im first to the bathroom, listening to her footsteps outside. The pipes groan as the tap runs. I hurry so she wont wait. In the kitchen, I hunt for tea and find two mismatched mugs. *Which one?* *Either.* But it feels like a trick. I make her black tea, myself green. She nudges the sugar bowl closer without a word. We eat by the window, wet snow blotting the pavement outside. I steal glancestired eyes, lips pressed thin.
We leave at the same time, colliding by the mirror, both hunting for keys. She waits on the landing. I lock up, her breath soft beside me. The lift ride is silent, just the distant hum of London below.
That evening, we trudge to Tesco. Wet pavement sucks at our shoes. Inside, the lights are blinding. *Whats on the list?* *Milk, bread, apples, something for tea.* I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. *Weve had enough pasta.* We bicker over milk quantities, yoghurt brandsholding onto opinions a beat too long.
At the till, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to dig for her card. I pay. The awkward silence lasts all the way home.
Back in the kitchen, we unpack in silence. I set the bread on the table; she moves it to the fridge. Both of us grasping for control where there is none.
Evening settles. I work at the laptop; she reads under a blanket, chin tucked in. Dusk stretches thin outside. *Any plans for the weekend?* she asks, voice measured. I hedge, unsure myself.
We cook togetherher chopping veg with quick, precise strokes, me frying chicken. We talk only about food or cleaning, avoiding each others eyes.
At dinner, lamplight soft between us, the tension thickenswarm and heavy. She pushes food around her plate. I straighten my cutlery obsessively. Rainor late snowticks against the window.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. *Can we talk? Really talk?* I nod, throat tight. *Im scared to start over. To mess up again.* *Me too. Of losing you. Or not fitting here anymore.*
We talk for hoursabout time apart, unspoken grudges, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of pretending even at home. No blame, just honesty about how hard it is to rebuild. *I want to try,* she says. *But if you leave now, I wont ask you back.* *Im here,* I answer. *That means I want to stay.*
After, the kitchen feels different. Less cold. She piles plates; I take the fork from her hand and rinse it. Our fingers brushmaybe accidental, maybe not. Washing up together is easier than arguing over whose turn it is. I pass her wet plates; she dries them, not looking at me. But the distance from earlier is gone.
In the living room, I crack the windowdamp earth smell seeping in. She curls up with her book; I half-heartedly type, thoughts circling her words.
Time slips by. Someone murmurs about cold tea or harsh light. Then silence again. This quiet *together*small, unremarkablefeels right. Like theres finally room for both of us.
Before bed, I fetch water. She follows, filling the kettle for chamomile. We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching raindrops slide down the pane. She pours hot waterblack tea long goneinto my mug first, then hers. We cradle them, warmth seeping into our palms.
In bed, she smiles briefly before turning away. The space between us doesnt feel like a barrier anymore.
Morning arrives softly. Lighter. Clouds gone for the first time in weeks. Dawn glows through the curtains. I wake as she does. We lie still, listening to dripping gutters and distant traffic. I reach for my phone, then stopnowhere to rush to today.
She rolls over. *Put the kettle on?* No tension, just quiet warmth. *Sure.*
We move to the kitchen. I fill the kettleit lives nearer the stove now. She grabs mugs without hesitation, sets the sugar between us like its always been there.
While the water boils, she wipes the tablerain-scent still lingeringand I pick teabags. *Green or black?* A small smile tugs her lips. *Green today.* I brew both strongno argument now.
We sit by the window. No chair feels like territory anymore. Outside, slush melts fast, droplets tapping the sill.
Breakfast is wordless. I slice bread thinhow she likes it. She takes a whole apple instead of half. Our reflections blur in the glass, and it hits me: this is what new closeness looks like. Unremarkable. Ours.
She clears her plate first. I linger by the window, chilled air on my cheeks. Then her hand rests on my shoulderlight, sure. *Thanks.*
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Just thisthis shared morning?
We dont ask. Smiles are enough. The fragile, new order of things.
