A Shared Morning
I stand outside the flat door, keys trembling in my cold fingersthe damp chill of the English autumn has seeped into them. The streetlamp casts a yellow glow over puddles by the entrance, footprints smudged into the wet pavement. I pull the door open carefully, stepping inside, and the air feels differentwarmer, slightly humid, as if the windows been left ajar despite the radiators blasting heat.
The hallway smells of laundry and something elseleftover dinner, perhaps. I drop my bag by the wall, noticing the shoes lined up differently from how I remember. Her scarf hangs over my coat on the rack. Everything is almost where it should be, but as I kick off my shoes, its clear: this order formed without me. She appears from the kitchen, offering a tight smile. “Dinner wont take long to heat up,” she says, her voice cautious. Mine matches hers. We tread lightly, circling each other like wary cats, afraid to knock over something unseen.
The living room is dim, the streetlamps outside painting streaks of gold on the walls. She switches on the table lamp. I scan the roombooks rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things are stacked neatly on the armchair. I feel like both a guest and an intruder in my own home. We sit at the table. She slides a plate of pasta and roasted veg toward me. We eat in silence, cutlery clinking against china. I want to ask if she missed me, how shes beenbut the words stick. Instead, I ask about work, and she talks about deadlines, late nights. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up; I unpack my bag, unsure now where my place is. She steps out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window creak open. The air turns fresher. Were both testing boundarieswhere a mug can be left, whose towel hangs where. By bedtime, we settle on opposite sides. The light flicks off in unison, a strip of cold sheets between us.
Morning comes early. Im first to the bathroom, listening to her footsteps outside. The pipes groan as the tap runs. I hurry, not wanting to keep her waiting. In the kitchen, I hunt for tea and find two mismatched mugs. “Which one?” I ask. “Either,” she says, but I sense the trap. I make her black tea, mine green. She nudges the sugar bowl toward herself. We eat breakfast at the small table by the window, sleet streaking the glass outside. I glance at hertired eyes, lips pressed thin.
We leave together, colliding at the mirror, both fumbling for keys. She waits on the landing as I lock up. The lift ride is silent, just the hum of the city below.
That evening, we go to the shop. Our shoes slip on the wet pavement. Inside, the lights are too bright. “Whats on the list?” I ask. “Milk, bread, apples, something for tea,” she says. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. “Not pasta again.” We bicker over trifleshow much milk to buy, whether we need yoghurt. Each holds their ground a second too long.
At the till, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to rummage for her card. I payan awkward pause stretches between us all the way home.
Back in the flat, we unpack in silence. I leave the bread on the table; she moves it to the counter. We both knowwere grasping for control where none exists.
Later, I work at the laptop; she reads under a blanket on the sofa. Dusk lingers outside. “Any plans for the weekend?” she asks, voice steady but careful. I dodge the questionI dont know yet myself.
We cook together, avoiding eye contact. She chops veg; I fry chicken. We talk only of food, of clearing the table.
Dinner is tense under the lamplight. She pushes food around her plate. I align my cutlery too precisely. Rain taps the window.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. “Can we talk properly?”
My voice is steadier than my hands. “Yeah.”
“Im scared to start over. What if we mess it up again?”
“Me too. Losing you, or… not fitting here anymore.”
We talk for hoursabout time apart, unspoken hurts, the fear of rejection, of playing roles even at home. No blame, just honesty about how hard it is to rebuild.
“I want to try again,” she says. “But if you walk out now, I wont ask you back.”
“Im here,” I reply. “Thats answer enough.”
After, the kitchen feels less cold. She stacks plates; I take a fork from her hand and rinse it. Our fingers brushaccidental or not, I cant tell. Washing up is easier than arguing over whose turn it is.
In the living room, I open the window. A damp breeze carries the scent of wet earth. She curls up with her book; I pretend to work. Silence settles between us, but its comfortable nowlike theres finally space for both of us.
Before bed, she makes teachamomile for herself, black for me. We stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink, warming our hands on the mugs.
In the bedroom, she leaves a sliver of space between usbut it no longer feels like a barrier.
Morning comes softer. Pale light filters through the curtains. I wake as she stirs. For a moment, we just listento dripping gutters, distant traffic.
“Put the kettle on?” she murmurs, voice warm, half-smiling.
“Course.”
We move around the kitchen with an unspoken rhythmshe grabs mugs; I fill the kettle. No arguments over tea strength today.
At the table, I slice bread thin, the way she likes. She takes a whole apple instead of half. Our reflections blur together in the windowa quiet shift, a new closeness.
When breakfasts done, she clears the plates. I linger by the open window, feeling the cool air. Then her hand rests on my shoulderlight, but certain.
“Thanks,” she says.
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Just thisthis shared morning?
We dont ask. The smiles, the quiet understandingits enough.
