He Didn’t Write It

Yesterday morning Katie Harper cranked her phone to maximum volume, just in case. Deep down she already knew he wouldnt write. The feeling settled over her like the foreboding before a downpourthick, inevitable, as if the air itself were tightening before a storm. Still, she turned the ringtone up. Hope clung to her like an old scarpainful, but refusing to let go. She tugged her hair into a loose bun, careful enough to look effortless yet polished. She slipped on the darkgreen coat he had once told her made her look like an autumn forest. She hadnt worn it since, but today she fished it out of the wardrobe. Her lips were painted a scarlet shade, far too vivid for a simple stroll to the chemist and the bakery.

The chemist was noisy. A cough rumbled in a corner, a dispute over the cost of prescriptions broke out, and a few people stood still, shifting weight from foot to foot. The scent of herbs mingled with something acrid, unmistakably clinical. Katie reached for the vitamin bottle hed recommended three years earlier, back when they still shared morning coffee at the little café on Deansgate. She held the pack, eyes tracing the tiny print. Best before next autumn, it warned, as if even the pills counted down the months left.

At the bakery, everything was as it always was: a young man with a tattoo on his wrist behind the counter, the warm smell of fresh bread and cinnamon, and a battered speaker spilling soft music. Katie bought a raspberry croissantthe very one hed once called the taste of morning, flashing a grin while wiping crumbs from his chin. She took two. One for tea at home, like the days when life was simpler. The other just because. A small fragment of the past she could slip into her pocket.

Back in her flat, silence pressed down like dust settled on ancient books. The air seemed frozen, as if afraid to move. Her phone lay on the windowsill, screen facedown, as though embarrassed by her stare. No messages. No missed calls. It felt as though the world had decided to walk past, not noticing her, and she herself had become a shadow melting into the grey morning light.

She set the kettle on, slipped off her coat slowly, as though fearing to disturb the hush. She placed her boots neatly by the door, smoothed the collar on the coat rack, then flicked on an old radio. The announcer droned about traffic jams, then a snowfall, then an exhibition at the local museum, each word muffled like it were underwater. She took a sip of teascalding, burning her throatbut swallowed without a wince. She moved to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass.

Outside, fine, prickly snow fell, landing on umbrellas, scarves, the slick pavement, and vanishing almost as soon as it arrived. A young father in a dark park adjusted his sons hat with the tender care that only years can teach. Elderly couples shuffled by, leaning on each other as if their hands had fused over decades. Someone hurried, slipping on the icy footpath; another laughed, eyes glued to a phone; a third froze at a shop window glittering with Christmas lights. Life moved onnoisy, vivid, indifferentpassing her by like a train that left the platform while she lingered, too scared to jump.

He didnt write.

Katie swept the floor with a broom, even though there was barely any dust. She called her Aunt Margaret and listened to stories about the country house, the nosy neighbour, a new cake recipe. She watered an ageing cactus, checking it hadnt turned yellow. She booked a doctors appointmenta trivial thing shed delayed for months. She reviewed her receiptseverything paidand ticked a box in her diary. She washed the family blanket, adding a little extra scent so the house would smell warm and alive.

As evening fell she lit every room. Not because she feared the dark, but because the house seemed aliveits windows glowing, reflecting off the wet pavement, as if whispering, Someone is here. There was life.

She stared at her reflection in the glass and thought, He didnt write. But Iam. No excuse, no challengejust a quiet truth. Like a candle lit for herself, not for anyone else, reminding her: she is still here.