The Common Morning
I stand before the flat door, where I havent slept in months. The keys tremble in my handoutside, the streets are slick with rain, my fingers long gone numb. The lamplight glimmers in the puddles by the entrance, footprints of unfamiliar boots pressed into the dirty slush. I pull the door toward me, careful not to make a sound, and at once I feel itthe air inside is different. Warm, slightly damp, as if someone often cracks the window, yet still thick with radiator heat.
The hallway greets me with the scent of fresh laundry and something elseperhaps last nights dinner. I set my bag by the wall, noticing the shoes arranged differently than I remember. On the coat hook, her scarf is draped over my jacket. Everything seems in its place, yet as I kick off my boots, its clearthis order formed without me. She steps out from the kitchen, smiling faintly, a little tense. Says dinner will heat up quickly. I reply just as carefully. Our voices barely skim the surface. Were both listeningto ourselves, to each otherafraid to brush against something unspoken.
The room is dim. Beyond the window, night has already fallen, and the streetlamps cast shifting shapes on the walls. She flicks on the desk lamp. I step inside, scanning the spacethe books have been rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things are stacked neatly on the armchair. I feel like both guest and host. We sit at the table. She sets a plate before mepasta and stewed vegetables. We eat in silence. Only the clink of cutlery against ceramic. I want to askhow shes been living here alone, if she missed mebut the words stick in my throat. Instead, I ask about work. She tells me about a new project, how late she stayed yesterday. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up, I unpack my bag, slotting things onto shelves. All the while, I catch myself wonderingwhere is my place here now? She leaves the room briefly, and I hear the kitchen window click open. The air shifts, cooler. We test boundaries: whose mug belongs where, whose towel hangs on which hook. By nightfall, we settle on opposite sides of the bed. The lights go out almost at the same time, and between us lies a strip of cold, untouched space.
Morning comes earlyIm first to the bathroom, listening to her footsteps outside the door. The pipes groan as the tap runs. I hurry, not wanting to keep her waiting. In the kitchen, I search for tea and find two mismatched mugs. I ask which one to use. Either, she says. But I sense the trap. I make her black tea, myself green. Silently, she nudges the sugar bowl closer to her side. We eat breakfast at the small table by the window. Outside, wet snow clings in patches, dripping from the ledge. I glance at hertired eyes, lips pressed just slightly tight.
After breakfast, we gather our things. In the hallway, we collide by the mirror, both hunting for keys. She steps out first, waiting on the landing. I lock the door behind me, her breath faint beside me. The lift descends in silence, the muffled hum of the street rising from below.
That evening, we go to the shop together. Our steps drag through wet pavement, shoes slipping. At the entrance, we scrape our soles clean on the mat. Inside, the fluorescent glare stings after the dim street. I ask for the shopping list. Milk, bread, apples, something for tea, she says. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frownsIm sick of pasta. We bicker over trifleshow much milk to buy, whether we need yoghurt. Each holds our ground a second too long.
At the till, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to dig for her card. I paythe awkward silence stretches all the way to the shop door. On the walk back, were both weary, barely speaking.
At home, we unpack in silence: I set the bread in the middle of the table. She moves it to the counter by the fridge. We both knowwere grasping for control where there is none.
Evening. I work at the laptop; she reads on the sofa, a blanket pulled to her chin. Outside, twilight lingerswe switch on the lamps before dark. At some point, she asks about weekend plans, voice steady but cautious. I dodge the questionI dont know myself yet.
We cook dinner together: she chops vegetables in quick strokes, I boil potatoes and fry chicken. Both of us avoid eye contact, speaking only of food or clearing the table.
When we sit down to eat in the lamplightthe main bulb switched off hours agothe tension between us thickens again, heavy and warm all at once.
I noticeshe barely touches the chicken, pushing her fork through the sides. I align my cutlery mechanically, dead centre. Outside, rainor late sleetticks against the window.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. Can we talk honestly? she murmurs.
I nodmy voice shakes worse than my hands.
Im afraid to start over I dont want to make the same mistakes.
Me too, I admit. Losing you again, or not belonging here anymore.
We talk for hoursabout the time apart, the unspoken hurts, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of pretending, the things we each thought alone in the dark.
No accusationsjust the raw truth of how hard it is to rebuild bridges, how much pain still lingers.
She says, I want to try again. But if you leave now, I wont take you back.
I answer, Im already here. That means I want to stay.
After that, the kitchen feels differentless cold, less foreign. She silently clears the plates, and I stand to help. No questionsI just take the fork from her hand and rinse the sauce under the tap. She sets the cups down, her fingers brushing minewas it deliberate? I dont know. 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 is gonethat careful distance that held us apart all day.
Later, were in the living roomI crack the window open, the draft carrying the scent of damp earth. The sill is streaked with melting snow and dirt, but the air feels lighter. She curls up with a book; I sit nearby with my laptop, though work is impossiblemy thoughts keep circling back to her words at dinner.
Time slips by. One of us murmurs somethingabout tea gone cold, the lamp too bright. Then we sink back into our own worlds. And suddenly, this quiet together feels rightas if theres finally room 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, watching droplets slide down the glass. She pours boiling water first for methe black teas long gonethen chamomile for herself. We cradle our mugs, the warmth identical in our hands.
In the bedroom, she offers a small smile before slipping under the covers. Out of habit, she leaves space between usbut now it doesnt feel like a barrier.
Morning arrives unexpectedly lightthe clouds have broken for the first time in days. Pale dawn filters through the curtains, strange after weeks of gloom.
We wake almost at the same time. For a moment, we just lie there, listeningto water dripping from the gutter, to the distant hum of the street below. I reach for my phone out of habit, then stop. RealiseIm not rushing anywhere today.
She turns onto her side. Put the kettle on? Her voice holds no strainjust weariness and something like a smile.
Sure, I reply, just as calm.
We leave the bedroom together. I fill the kettleit sits closer to the stove now. She fetches two mugs without hesitation, sets the sugar bowl between usas if its always been this way.
While the water boils, she wipes the tableit still smells of last nights rain. I pick tea bags from the box, glance at hergreen or black? The corner of her mouth lifts.
Green today.
I nod, steep both cups the samewe used to argue over strength.
We sit at the window, facing each otherfor the first time, it feels easy. Neither chair seems claimed. Outside, the last snow melts fast, water pattering unevenly from the eaves.
Breakfast passes with few wordsI slice the bread thin, the way she likes. She takes a whole apple now, not half. Our reflections hover in the glassher face beside mine. And suddenly I understandthis is what new closeness looks like. A shift too subtle for outsiders to see.
When we finish, she clears the dishes straight away. I linger by the window, listening to the dripping, feeling the morning chill on my cheeksthe latch still open from airing out. Then she steps close, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
Thanks.
For what? Breakfast? For staying? Or just because this morning is ours now?
We dont ask. Dont need to. A glance, a smilethis fragile new order is enough.
