I stand in front of the flat door, a place I havent slept in for months. The keys tremble in my handoutside, the sleet has left my fingers numb. Streetlight glints in the puddles by the entrance, and dirty snow bears the imprint of strangers boots. I pull the door open carefully, trying not to make a sound, and immediately notice the air inside is different. Warm, slightly damp, as if someone often opens the window despite the radiators dry heat.
The hallway greets me with the scent of freshly laundered clothes and something elseperhaps last nights dinner. I set my bag down by the wall and notice the shoes arranged differently from how I remember. On the coat rack, her scarf hangs over my jacket. Everything seems in its place, yet as I take off my shoes, its clear this order formed without me. She steps out of the kitchen, offering a tense smile. Dinner wont take long to heat up, she says. My reply is just as cautious. Our voices skate over the surface, both of us listeningto ourselves, to each otherafraid of disturbing something unspoken.
The room is dim. Outside, night has fallen, and streetlamps cast shifting shapes on the walls. She switches on the table lamp. I step further in, glancing around: the books have been rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things sit in a neat pile on the armchair. I feel both guest and host at once. We sit at the table. She places a plate of pasta and roasted veg in front of me. We eat in silence, the clink of cutlery the only sound. I want to askhow shes been living here alone, whether she missed mebut the words stick. Instead, I ask about work, and she tells me about a new project, how late she stayed yesterday. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up while I unpack my bag, sorting things onto shelves. All the while, I catch myself wonderingwhere exactly is my place here? She steps out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window click open. The air grows fresher. We both test boundarieswhere a mug can be left, which hook holds a towel. By bedtime, we settle on opposite sides, the strip of cold air between us untouched.
Morning comes early. Im first to the bathroom, listening to her footsteps outside. The pipes groan as water rushes through. I dont linger, not wanting to keep her waiting. In the kitchen, I search for tea and spot two mismatched mugs. Which one should I use? I ask. Either, she says. But I sense the trap. I make her black tea, mine green. She silently moves the sugar bowl closer to her side. We eat breakfast at the small table by the window. Outside, patches of wet snow cling to the pavement, dripping from the ledge. I glance at hertired eyes, lips pressed thin.
After breakfast, we gather our things. In the hallway, we collide by the mirror, both reaching for keys. She leaves first, waiting on the landing. I shut the door behind us, her breath faint beside me. The lift descends in silence, the hum of the street rising from below.
That evening, we walk to the shop together. Our steps sink into rain-slick pavement, shoes slipping. At the entrance, we pause to wipe our feet on the mat. Inside, harsh lights sting after the dim street. Whats on the list? I ask. Milk, bread, apples, something for tea, she says. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. Pastas boring. We bicker over detailshow much milk to buy, whether we need yoghurteach holding our ground a second too long.
At the till, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to search for her card. I paythe awkward pause stretching all the way to the shop door. On the walk back, were both too tired to speak.
At home, we unpack in silence. I set the bread in the middle of the table; she moves it by the fridge. Both of us knowwere grasping for control where none exists.
Later, I work at my laptop while she reads on the sofa, a blanket pulled to her chin. Outside, twilight lingers; the lights stay on even by day. At some point, she asks about weekend plansher voice calm but guarded. I hedge, unsure myself.
We cook dinner together: she chops veg with quick, practised strokes; I boil potatoes and fry chicken. We avoid each others gaze, speaking only of food or clearing up.
Seated under the glow of the table lampthe overhead light switched off hours agotension thickens between us, heavy yet warm.
I noticeshe barely touches the chicken, pushing the potatoes around her plate. I align my cutlery precisely at the centre. The sound outside could be rain or late snow tapping the ledge.
Suddenly, she sets down her fork. Can we talk properly? she murmurs. I nodmy voice shakes more than my hands. Im scared to start over scared Ill mess it up again. Me too, I admit. Losing you or just not belonging here anymore.
We talk for hoursabout time apart, unspoken hurts, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of playing roles even at home, the things we each thought in private, far from shared routines.
No accusations, just honestyhow hard it is to rebuild bridges, how much pain lingers beneath.
She says, I want to try again. But if you leave now, I wont ask you back. I reply, Im already here. That means I want to stay.
After that, the kitchen feels differentless cold, less foreign. She clears the plates without a word. I rise to help, taking the fork from her hand, rinsing sauce under the tap. She sets the cups down, her fingers brushing minewhether by accident, I cant tell. 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 eye. But the tension, the careful distance of the day, is gone.
Later, we drift into the living room. I crack the window opena draught carries the scent of damp earth. The sill holds scraps of snow mixed with grime, but the air feels lighter. She curls up with her book; I open my laptop, though work is impossiblemy thoughts keep circling back to her words at dinner.
Time slips by. One of us murmurs somethingthe teas gone cold, the lamps too brightthen we sink back into ourselves. Yet this quiet together, unspoken and subdued, feels rightas if theres finally space for both of us without pretence.
Before bed, I fetch water from the kitchen. Her footsteps followshe fills the kettle for herbal tea. We stand shoulder to shoulder by the window; droplets slide down the pane. She makes mine firstthe black teas long gonethen hers, chamomile. We cradle the mugs, the warmth seeping into our palms.
In the bedroom, she offers a brief smile before slipping under the covers. Out of habit, she leaves space between usbut now, it doesnt feel like a barrier.
Morning arrives unexpectedly light. Beyond the curtains, dawn breaks softlythe first clear sky in weeks.
We wake almost at the same time. For a moment, we lie still, listening to drips from the roof and the distant murmur of the street below. I reach for my phone, then stoprealising, suddenly, that theres no urgency today.
She turns onto her side. Put the kettle on? Her voice holds no strainjust weariness and something like a smile. Sure, I answer, just as calm.
We leave the bedroom together. I fill the kettleits moved closer to the hob now. She takes down two mugs without hesitation, setting the sugar bowl between us as if its always been there.
While the water boils, she wipes the tablethe cloth smells of 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, steeping both mugs equally strongsomething we once argued over.
We sit by the window, facing each other. For the first time, the motion feels easyneither chair claimed in advance. Outside, the last snow melts fast; water drips steadily from the eaves.
Breakfast passes in near-silence. I slice the bread thinhow she likes it. She takes a whole apple instead of half. Our reflections blur in the glass, and I realisethis is what new closeness looks like. A quiet shift, invisible to anyone else.
When we finish, she clears the dishes straight away. I linger by the window, listening to the drip of thaw, feeling the morning chill on my face. Then shes beside me, her palm resting lightly on my shoulder. Thanks.
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Or just because this morning is ours now? We dont ask. A smile is enoughand the fragile, certain sense of something new.
