Im standing outside the flat I havent slept in for months. The keys tremble in my handits drizzly out, my fingers long gone numb. The streetlamp casts reflections in the puddles by the entrance, muddy slush stamped with boot prints. I pull the door open carefully, trying not to make a sound, and immediately notice the air inside is different. Warm, slightly damp, like someones been airing the place out but the radiators are still blasting.
The hallway smells of laundry and something elsemaybe last nights dinner. I drop my bag by the wall, noticing the shoes lined up differently than I remember. Her scarf hangs over my coat on the rack. Everythings in its place, yet when I kick off my boots, its obviousthis order formed without me. She steps out of the kitchen, offering a tight smile. Says dinner wont take long to heat up. I answer just as carefully. Our voices skim the surface. Were both listeningto ourselves, to each otherafraid to disturb something unspoken.
The rooms dim. Dark already outside, streetlamps painting streaks on the walls. She clicks on the desk lamp. I glance aroundbooks rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things are stacked on the armchair. I feel like both a guest and the one who belongs here. We sit at the table. She slides a plate of pasta and veg in front of me. We eat in silence. Just the clink of cutlery on ceramic. I want to askhow shes been living here alone, if she missed mebut the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She talks about a new project, late nights. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up, I unpack my bag, shelving things absently. Catch myself wonderingwheres my place here now? She slips out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window creak open. The air shifts, cooler. Were testing boundaries: whose mug goes where, whose towel hangs where. By bedtime, weve claimed our halves of the mattress. The lights go off almost in sync, a strip of cold air between us.
Morning comes early: Im first to the bathroom, hear 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, spot two mismatched mugs. Ask which ones mine. «Either,» she says. But theres weight to it. I make her black tea, green for me. She nudges the sugar bowl closer to her side without a word. We breakfast at the small table by the window. Outside, sleet dots the pavement, drips from the ledge. I sneak a glanceher eyes are tired, lips pressed thin.
After, we get ready separately. Collide at the mirror, both fumbling for keys. Shes first out the door, waiting on the landing. I lock up, hear her breath beside me. The lift ride down is silent, just the muffled hum of the street below.
That evening, we shop together. Our steps drag through wet pavement, shoes slipping. At the entrance, we scrape our soles clean. Inside, fluorescent lights sting after the dim street. I ask what we need. «Milk, bread, apples, something for tea,» she says briskly. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. «Pastas boring.» We bicker over nothinghow much milk, whether to get yoghurt. Each holding our ground a beat too long.
At checkout, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to dig for her card. I paythe awkward pause lingers all the way to the exit. On the walk back, were both exhausted, barely speaking.
At home, we put things away in silence: I leave the bread on the table, she moves it by the fridge. Both of us grasping for control where none exists.
Later, Im at the laptop working; shes curled under a blanket on the sofa, book in hand. Dusk stretches outsidelights on by mid-afternoon. At some point, she asks about weekend plans, voice steady but cautious. I dodge the question. Truth is, I dont know either.
We cook dinner side by side: she chops veg quick and sharp, I boil potatoes and fry chicken. We avoid eye contact, only speaking to coordinatefood, clearing the table.
Eating by lamplight (the overheads been off all day), the tension between us thickenswarm and heavy at once.
I notice: she barely touches the chicken, pushes veg around her plate. I line up my cutlery dead centre. Outside, rain or late sleet ticks against the pane.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. Quietly:
«Can we just talk honestly?»
I nodvoice shaking worse than my hands.
«Im scared to start over What if I mess up again?»
«Me too. Losing you or not fitting here anymore.»
We talk for agesabout time apart, unspoken grudges, the fear of rejection, exhaustion from pretending, the thoughts wed each nursed alone at night.
No blamejust admissions. How hard it is to rebuild bridges, how much hurt still lingers.
She says:
«I want to try But if you leave now, I wont wait again.»
I answer:
«Im already here. Means I want to stay.»
After, the kitchen feels differentless cold, less foreign. She stacks plates silently; I rise to help. Dont askjust take the fork from her, rinse sauce under the tap. She sets cups down, fingers brushing my handaccidental or not, who knows? Washing up togethers easier than debating whose turn it is. I pass her wet plates; she dries, stacks them away, avoiding my eyes. But the tensions gonethat careful distance dissolved.
Later, in the living room, I crack the windowdamp earth smell seeps in. The sills streaked with melting grime, but the airs lighter. She sinks into the sofa with her book; I settle nearby, laptop open. Works impossiblemy mind keeps circling back to her words at dinner.
Time slips by. One of us murmurs somethingteas gone cold, the lamps too bright. Then we sink back into our own worlds. And somehow, this quiet «together» feels rightlike theres finally space for both of us, no roles to play.
Before bed, I fetch water from the kitchen; hear her behind mefilling the kettle for herbal tea. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder by the window. Droplets race down the glass. She pours boiling waterblack teas long gonesteeping chamomile for herself. We cradle our mugs, warmth seeping into our palms.
In the bedroom, she offers a small smile before sliding under the duvet. Still leaves space between usbut now it doesnt feel like a barrier.
Morning arrives unexpectedly softfirst break in the clouds for days. Pale dawn seeps through the curtains, strange after weeks of gloom.
We wake nearly in sync. Lie there, listening to drips from the eaves, distant street noise. I reach for my phonethen stop. Realise Im in no rush today, not like before.
She rolls onto her side:
«Put the kettle on?»
No tension in her voicejust weariness, something like a smile in her eyes.
«Course,» I reply, just as easy.
We pad to the kitchen together. I fill the kettleit lives nearer the stove now. She takes down two mugs without hesitation, sets the sugar bowl between us like its always been there.
While the water boils, she wipes the tablestill smells like last nights rainand I pick tea bags. Glance at her: green or black? She quirks a corner of her mouth:
«Green today.»
I nod, steep both strongno debating strength now.
We sit opposite each other by the window. For once, its effortlessneither chair feels claimed. Outside, slush melts fast, drips from gutters in uneven beats.
Breakfast is near-wordless: I slice bread thinhow she likes it; she takes a whole apple instead of half. Occasionally, our reflections catch in the glassher face beside mine. And it hits me: this is what new closeness looks like. A shift invisible to anyone else, unfolding in the quiet of a shared morning.
When we finish, she clears her plate straight away. I linger by the windowlistening to drips, feeling the chill on my cheeks. Then shes beside me, hand resting lightly on my shoulder:
«Thanks»
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Just because its our morning now?
We dont dissect it. The small smiles are enoughthe fragile, real sense of something new.
