I stand outside the flat I havent slept in for months. The keys tremble in my handdamp from the sleet outside, my fingers long since numb. Streetlight glints in the puddles by the doorstep, muddy footprints stamped into the slush. I pull the door open carefully, avoiding noise, and the air inside hits me differently. Warm, slightly damp, as if someone often opens the window despite the radiators blasting heat.
The hallway smells of fresh laundry and something elselast nights dinner, maybe. 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. Everything seems in place, yet as I kick off my boots, its clear this order wasnt shaped by me. She steps out from the kitchen, offering a tight-lipped smile. Dinners nearly ready, she says. I reply just as carefully. Our voices skate over the surface, both of us listeningto ourselves, to each otherafraid to disturb something unspoken.
Dusk fills the living room. Outside, streetlamps cast shaky shapes on the walls. She clicks on the lamp. I glance aroundbooks rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things sit neatly folded on the armchair. I feel both guest and host. We sit at the table. She slides a plate of pasta and roasted veg toward me. We eat in silence, forks clinking. I want to askhow shes been, if she missed mebut the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She mentions a new project, late nights. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up, I unpack, unsure where my place is now. She steps out briefly; I hear the kitchen window open. The air freshens. We test boundarieswhere to leave a mug, whose towel hangs where. By night, we retreat to our sides of the bed. The lights click off almost at once, a strip of cold air between us.
Morning comes early. I shower first, listening to her footsteps outside the door. Pipes groan as the water runs. I hurry, not wanting to keep her waiting. In the kitchen, I hunt for tea and find two mismatched mugs. Which ones mine? Either, she says. But I sense the trap. I brew her black tea, mine green. She slides the sugar bowl closer without a word. We eat at the small table by the window. Outside, sleet patters against the glass. I steal glances: tired eyes, lips pressed thin.
We leave together, colliding at the mirrorboth searching for keys. She waits on the landing. The door clicks shut behind me, her breath close in the stairwell. The lift descends in silence, the hum of the street rising from below.
Later, we shop together. Our boots slip on wet pavement. At the entrance, we wipe our soles too long under harsh fluorescent lights. I ask about the list. Milk, bread, apples, something for tea, she says. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frownspastas boring. We bicker over milk quantities, whether to try new yoghurt, holding our ground a second too long.
At checkout, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to dig for her card. I paythe awkward pause stretches to the car park. On the walk back, exhaustion keeps us quiet.
At home, we unpack in silence. I leave the bread on the table; she moves it to the counter. Both of us grasping for control where there is none.
Evening. I work at the desk; she reads under a blanket on the sofa. Dusk lingers, forcing the lights on early. Eventually, she asks about weekend plansvoice steady but cautious. I hedge, unsure myself.
Dinners a joint effort: she chops veg briskly; I fry chicken, boil potatoes. We avoid eye contact, speaking only of food or clearing up.
Under the dim glow of the table lampthe overheads been off all daytension thickens between us, warm and heavy.
I notice: she barely touches the chicken, pokes at her plate. I straighten my cutlery mechanically. Rainor late snowticks against the window.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. «Can we talk properly?»
I nod, my voice shakier than my hands.
«Im scared to start over. What if I mess up again?»
«Me too. Losing youor not belonging here anymore.»
We talk for hoursabout the time apart, unspoken hurts, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of pretending even at home, the nights spent wondering.
No accusationsjust honesty about how hard it is to rebuild, how much still aches.
She says, «I want to try. But if you leave now, I wont take you back.»
I answer, «Im already here. That means I want to stay.»
After, the kitchen feels less cold, less foreign. She stacks plates; I rise to help. No askingjust taking the fork from her hand, rinsing sauce under the tap. She sets cups down, her fingers brushing mineaccidentally? Who knows. Washing up togethers easier than arguing over whose turn it is. I pass her wet plates; she dries them, not meeting my eye. But the guardedness from earlier is gone.
Later, in the living room, I crack the window opendamp earth smell seeps in. Melting sleet smudges the sill. She curls up with a book; I open my laptop, too distracted to work.
Time slips by. One of us murmurs about cold tea or harsh lighting. Then silence again. Yet this quiet «together» feels rightlike theres finally space for both of us, no roles to play.
Before bed, I fetch water; she fills the kettle for chamomile. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder by the window, condensation streaking the glass. She pours hot waterblack teas long gonethen steeps her own. We cradle mugs, warmth seeping into our palms.
In bed, she offers a brief smile before turning away. The gap between us remainsbut no longer feels like distance.
Morning arrives softly. Lighter than its been in weeksclouds gone, weak dawn filtering through curtains.
We wake near-simultaneously. Lie still, listening to dripping gutters, distant traffic. I reach for my phone, then stopno rush today.
She rolls over. «Put the kettle on?» No tensionjust weariness, something like a smile in her voice.
«Sure,» I match her tone.
We move to the kitchen. I fill the kettleits 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 still lingers in the airand I pick teabags. A glance: green or black?
«Green today,» she says, mouth quirking.
I nod, steep both strongno arguing this time.
We sit by the window. For once, neither chair feels claimed. Outside, sleet melts fast, droplets pattering the sill.
Breakfast passes wordlessly. I slice bread thinhow she likes it. She takes a whole appleusually just half. Our reflections blur in the glass, side by side. This, I realise, is what new closeness looks like: small, invisible to outsiders, shifting the shape of a shared morning.
After, she clears her plate swiftly. I linger by the window, listening to the drip of thaw, cool air on my cheeks.
Then her hand rests on my shoulderlight, fleeting.
«Thanks.»
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Or just thisa morning thats ours again?
We dont ask. Smiles suffice, and the fragile, real sense of something new.
