He Didn’t Write It

Yesterday morning I turned my phone up to the loudest setting, just in case. Deep down I knew he wouldnt write back. The feeling was like the heaviness before a downpourslow, inevitable, as if the air itself were thickening in anticipation of a storm. Still, I cranked the volume. Hope is a scar that never quite heals; it aches, but it clings.

I pulled my hair into a loose bun, doing it with just enough care to look effortless yet tidy. I threw on the darkgreen coat he once told me made me look like an autumn forest. I hadnt worn it since that comment, but today I dug it out of the wardrobe. I painted my lips a daring scarletfar too bright for a simple stroll to the chemist and the bakery.

The chemist was noisy. Someone coughed hoarsely in the corner, another argued over the price of tablets, a third stood silent, shifting weight from foot to foot. The scent of herbs mixed with a sharp, medicinal sting. I grabbed the vitamins hed recommended three years ago, back when we still met for coffee each morning. I stared at the tiny print on the packet: Best before next autumn. It felt as if even the expiry date counted down the months left in a chapter of my life.

At the bakery, everything was as familiar as ever: a young bloke with a tattoo on his wrist behind the counter, the warm aroma of fresh bread and cinnamon, a battered speaker playing soft tunes. I bought a raspberry croissantthe very one hed once called the taste of morning while wiping crumbs from his chin. I took two: one for tea at home, like we used to have when life was simpler, the other simply because I could, a little pocket of the past I could slip into my coat.

When I got back, the flat was oppressively quiet, like dust settled on old books. The air seemed frozen, as if it were afraid to move. My phone lay on the windowsill, screen face down, as though ashamed of being looked at. No messages. No missed calls. It felt as though the world had decided to walk past me unnoticed, and I had become a shadow melting into the grey morning light.

I set the kettle on, slipped off the coat slowly, as if I might scare the silence away. I placed my shoes neatly by the door, straightened the collar on the rack, and turned on the ancient radio. The announcer droned about traffic jams, then a snowfall, then an exhibition at the local museumeverything muffled, as if spoken from underwater. I took a sip of tea, scalding hot, and swallowed without grimacing. I moved to the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass.

Outside, fine, prickly snow was falling, landing on umbrellas, scarves, the pavement, and vanishing almost as quickly. A young father in a dark park coat adjusted his sons hat with a tenderness that only years can teach. Elderly couples shuffled along, leaning on each other as if their hands had grown together over decades. Some hurried, slipping on the icy curb; others laughed, eyes glued to their phones; a few lingered before a shop window glittering with festive lights. Life buzzed onloud, alive, indifferentright past me, like a train that had already left the platform while I stood frozen, unable to decide whether to jump aboard.

He didnt write.

I grabbed the broom and swept the floor, even though there was hardly any dust. I called my aunt and listened to her chatter about the cottage, the neighbour, a new pie recipe. I watered the old cactus, checking carefully that it hadnt turned yellow. I booked a doctors appointmentsomething Id been putting off for months. I went through the bills; everything was paid, and I ticked it off in my diary. I washed the blanket, adding a little extra fabric softener so the house would smell warm and livedin.

In the evening I switched on the lights in every room, not because I feared the dark but because the house seemed to breathe thenits windows glowing, reflecting off the damp pavement, as if whispering, Someones here. Life is here.

I looked at my reflection in the glass and thought, He didnt write. But I am. No excuse, no challengejust a quiet truth. Like lighting a candle not for anyone else, but for yourself, to remember that youre still here.