**A Shared Morning**
I stand at the door of the flat where I havent slept in months. The keys tremble in my handoutside, its sleeting, and my fingers have long gone numb. Streetlight glints in the puddles by the doorstep, and dirty snow bears the prints of strangers boots. I pull the door open carefully, trying not to make noise, and the air inside hits medifferent. Warm, slightly damp, as if someones been airing the place despite the radiator heat.
The hallway smells of laundry and something elsemaybe last nights dinner. I drop my bag by the wall and notice the shoes lined up differently than I remember. Her scarf hangs over my coat on the rack. Everythings *almost* in its place, but as I take off my boots, its clear: this order formed without me. She steps out of the kitchen, offering a tight smile. *Dinner wont take long to heat up*, she says. I reply just as carefully. Our voices skate over the surface. Both of us listeningto ourselves, to each otherafraid to brush against something raw.
Dusk fills the room. Outside, the streetlamps paint streaks of light on the walls. She clicks on the table lamp. I glance around: books rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things sit stacked on the armchair. I feel like a guest and the owner all at once. We eat in silence, forks scraping ceramic. I want to ask*Howve you been? Did you miss me?*but the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She mentions a new project, late nights. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes dishes; I unpack, unsure where my place is now. She steps out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window crack open. The air shifts. Were testing boundarieswhose mug goes where, whose towel claims the hook. By bedtime, we retreat to our respective sides. The light flicks off almost 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 so she wont wait. In the kitchen, I hunt for tea and find two mismatched mugs. *Which one?* I ask. *Either*, she says, but theres a trap in it. I brew her black tea, mine green. She slides the sugar bowl toward herself without comment. We eat at the small table by the window, watching sleet speckle the glass. When I sneak a glance, her eyes are tired, lips pressed thin.
Later, we collide in the hallway, both fumbling for keys. She waits on the landing. I lock up, her breath close beside me. The lift hums downward, the silence thick.
That evening, we trudge to the shop. Wet pavement sucks at our shoes. Inside, fluorescent lights sting. *Whats on the list?* I ask. *Milk, bread, apples, something for tea.* I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns: *Pastas boring.* We bicker over pints of milk, whether to buy yoghurt, clinging to our opinions a beat too long.
At checkout, I pull out my wallet first. She pretends to dig for her card. I paythe awkwardness lingers all the way home.
Back at the flat, we unpack in silence. I leave the bread on the table; she moves it to the counter. Both of us grasping for control where none exists.
Night falls. I work at the desk; she reads under a blanket. The room dim, lamplight pooling between us. *Any plans for the weekend?* she asks, voice steady but cautious. I hedgetruth is, I dont know.
We cook together: she chops veg with quick strokes; I boil potatoes and fry chicken. Eyes averted, we speak only of food or chores. At the table, tension thickens in the low light. I notice she barely touches the chicken, pushing peas with her fork. Outside, rainor late snowticks against the pane.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. *Can we talk?* My voice shakes worse than my hands as I agree.
*Im scared to start over*, she admits. *To mess up again.*
*So am I*, I say. *Of losing you. Or not fitting here anymore.*
We talk for hoursabout time apart, unspoken hurts, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of playing roles even at home. No accusations, just honesty: how hard it is to rebuild, how much still aches.
*I want to try*, she says. *But if you leave now, I wont take you back.*
*Im here*, I reply. *That means I want to stay.*
After, the kitchen feels differentnot so cold. She clears plates; I rise to help. No questions, just taking the fork from her hand, rinsing sauce under the tap. Our fingers brush. Maybe accidental. Maybe not. Washing up together is easier than arguing over whose turn it is.
Later, in the lounge, I open the window. Damp earth scent drifts in. She curls on the sofa with a book; I half-heartedly type, thoughts circling her words. We murmur about tea or lamplight, then lapse into quiet. This *together*, even wordless, feels rightlike theres space for us both now, no scripts required.
At bedtime, she smiles faintly before turning in. The gap between us no longer feels like distance.
Morning arrives softly. Sunlightrare after weeks of gloomfilters through the curtains. We wake in sync, listening to dripping gutters, street noise below. I reach for my phone, then stop. No rush today.
*Put the kettle on?* she asks, voice warm.
*Course*, I say.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettle. She sets out mugs without hesitation, the sugar bowl between us like its always been. While the water boils, she wipes the rain-scented table; I pick tea bags*Green or black?* She smiles: *Green today.* I steep both strong. No debate.
We sit by the window, easy now. No chair feels claimed. Outside, snowmelt patters. Breakfast passes in quiet: I slice bread thin, her way; she takes a whole apple instead of half. Our reflections overlap in the glassa new closeness, invisible to anyone else.
When we finish, she clears the plates. I linger by the window, feeling the chill on my cheeks. Then her hand rests on my shoulder. *Thanks*, she says.
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Just this shared morning?
We dont ask. Smiles and the fragile new order say enough.
