I stand before the door of the flat where I havent slept in months. The keys tremble in my handoutside, the slush has seeped into my gloves, leaving my fingers numb. The streetlamps glow flickers in the puddles by the entrance, and dirty snow bears the imprints of strangers boots. I pull the door open carefully, trying not to make a sound, and the air inside hits mewarmer, damp, as if the windows been left ajar despite the radiators blasting.
The hallway smells of freshly laundered sheets and something elseleftovers from dinner, perhaps. 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 is in its place, yet as I toe off my boots, its clear: this order was made without me. She steps out of the kitchen, offering a tight smile. *Dinner wont take long to heat up*, she says. I reply just as cautiously. Our voices skim the surface, neither of us daring to disturb what lies beneath.
The living room is dim, the streetlamps casting long shadows on the walls. She switches on the table lamp. I glance aroundbooks rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things are stacked neatly on the armchair. I feel both guest and intruder here. We sit at the table. She slides a plate of pasta and roasted vegetables toward me. We eat in silence, the scrape of cutlery against ceramic the only sound. I want to ask*Did you miss me? How was it here alone?*but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I ask about work. She mentions a new project, late nights. I nod.
The evening unfolds quietly: she washes up; I unpack, hesitating over where my things belong now. When she steps out, I hear the kitchen window creak open. The air shifts, cooler. We test boundarieswhose mug belongs where, whose towel hangs where. By nightfall, we retreat to our respective sides of the bed. The lights go out almost in unison, a sliver of cold air between us.
Morning comes too soon. 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 search for tea and find two mismatched mugs. *Which one should I use?* *Either*, she says. But I sense the trap. I brew her black tea, mine green. She nudges the sugar bowl closer to her side without a word. We eat at the small table by the window, watching the sleet streak the glass. When I glance at hertired eyes, lips pressed thinI look away just as quickly.
We leave together, colliding in the hallway as we both reach for our keys. She waits on the landing while I lock up. The lift hums between floors, the murmur of the street rising from below.
That evening, we trudge to the Tesco. Our shoes slip on wet pavement. Inside, the fluorescent lights sting. *Whats on the list?* I ask. *Milk, bread, apples, something for tea*, she replies. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. *Weve had enough pasta.* We bicker over quantitieshow much milk, whether to try a new yoghurteach clinging to our opinions a beat too long.
At the till, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to rummage for her card. I pay. The silence stretches all the way home.
Back in the kitchen, we unpack without speaking. I leave the bread on the table; she moves it to the counter. Were both grasping for control where none exists.
Later, I work at the laptop while she reads under a blanket, chin tucked in. Dusk lingers outside; we switch the lamps on early. *Any plans for the weekend?* she asks, voice steady but cautious. I evadeI dont know yet myself.
We cook together: she chops vegetables swiftly; I fry chicken and boil potatoes. We talk only of food, of clearing the table.
At dinner, under the soft glow of the lamp, the tension thickenswarm and heavy all at once.
She barely touches the chicken, pushing her fork through the sides. I align my cutlery precisely. Rainor maybe late snowticks against the window.
Then she sets her fork down. *Can we talk? Really talk?* I nod, my voice trembling worse than my hands. *Im scared to start over. Scared Ill mess up again.* *Me too*, I admit. *Scared I dont belong here anymore.*
We talk for hoursabout the time apart, the unspoken resentments, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of pretending. No accusations, just honesty.
*I want to try*, she says. *But if you leave now, I wont ask you back.* *Im here*, I tell her. *Thats my answer.*
After, the kitchen feels less foreign. She stacks plates; I take the fork from her hand and rinse it under the tap. She sets the cups down, her fingers brushing minedeliberate or not, I cant tell. Washing up together is easier than arguing over whose turn it is. I pass her wet plates; she dries them, avoiding my eyes. But the stiffness between us is gone.
In the living room, I crack the window opendamp earth and city air drift in. She curls into the sofa with her book; I open my laptop but cant focus.
Time slips by. One of us murmurs about the tea going cold or the lamp being too bright. Then silence again. And yetthis quiet *together* feels right, like theres finally room for both of us without pretending.
Before bed, I fetch water from the kitchen. She follows, filling the kettle for chamomile tea. We stand shoulder to shoulder at the window, watching droplets slide down the pane. She pours hot water into my mug firstwe finished the black tea earlierthen hers. We cradle them, the heat seeping into our palms.
In the bedroom, she offers a small smile before turning in. The space between us no longer feels like distance.
Morning comes easier than expected. Pale light filters through the curtainsthe first break in weeks of grey. I wake as she stirs. For a moment, we lie still, listening to the drip of melting snow outside. I reach for my phone, then stop. Theres nowhere I need to be.
She rolls onto her side. *Will you put the kettle on?* No tension in her voicejust weariness, something like a smile. *Course*, I reply.
We move to the kitchen together. I fill the kettle; she sets out the mugs, the sugar bowl between us like its always been there. While the water boils, she wipes the tablestill smelling of last nights rainand I pick the tea bags. I glance at her: *Green or black?* A faint smile. *Green today.* I steep them both the same. No argument.
We sit by the window, the chairs no longer assigned. Outside, the last of the snow melts, dripping steadily from the eaves.
Breakfast passes without words. I slice the bread thinhow she likes it. She takes a whole apple instead of half. Our reflections blur in the glass, and it hits me: this is what new closeness looks likesmall, unremarkable shifts in the rhythm of a shared morning.
When we finish, she clears the plates. I linger by the window, the chill on my cheeks, until she steps close. Her hand rests on my shoulder. *Thanks.*
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Or justthis.
We dont ask. The smiles, the quiet, the fragile new orderits enough.
