The Common Morning
I stand before the flat door, the keys trembling in my handoutside, the sleet has numbed my fingers. Lamplight glimmers in puddles by the entrance, and boot prints litter the slush. I pull the door open, careful not to make a sound, and the air inside is differentwarm, slightly damp, as if someone often opens the window despite the radiators blasting heat.
In the hallway, the scent of laundry mingles with something elsethe remnants of dinner, perhaps. I drop my bag by the wall and notice the shoes arranged differently than I remember. Her scarf hangs over my coat on the hook. Everything is where it should be, and yet, as I slip off my boots, I know the order here formed without me. She steps out of the kitchen, offering a tight smile. Dinner will be warm soon, she says. I reply with equal caution. Our voices skim the surface, both of us listeningto ourselves, to each otherafraid to disturb something unspoken.
The room is dim. Outside, streetlamps cast shifting shapes on the walls. She switches on the desk lamp. I step further in, taking stock: the books are rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things are piled neatly on the armchair. I feel like both guest and owner. We sit at the table. She places a plate of pasta and roasted vegetables before me. We eat in silence, the clink of cutlery the only sound. I want to askhow she lived here alone, if she missed mebut the words catch. Instead, I ask about work. She tells me about a new project, about late nights. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes dishes; I unpack my bag, unsure now where my place is. She steps out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window being pushed open. The air freshens slightly. We test boundarieswho sets a mug where, who claims which towel. By nightfall, we settle on our respective sides of the bed. The lights click off almost in unison, a strip of cold air between us.
Morning comes early: I head to the bathroom first, listening to her footsteps outside. The pipes groan as the tap runs. I hurry so she wont wait long. 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 make her black tea, mine green. She nudges the sugar bowl closer to herself without comment. We eat breakfast at the small table by the window. Outside, wet snow clings in patches, dripping from the ledge. I steal glances at hertired eyes, lips pressed thin.
After, we gather our things. In the hallway, we collide at the mirror, both searching for keys. She steps out first, waiting on the landing. I shut the door behind me, her breath audible beside mine. The lift descends in silence, the muffled hum of the street rising from below.
That evening, we walk to the shop together. Our steps drag through wet tarmac, shoes slipping. Inside, the glare stings after the dim streets. I ask about the shopping listmilk, bread, apples, something for tea. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. *Pastas gotten old.* We bicker over trivial thingshow much milk to buy, whether we need yoghurteach holding our ground a beat too long.
At the till, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to search her bag for hers. I pay. The awkward silence stretches all the way to the shop doors. On the way back, were both too weary to speak.
At home, we unpack in silence. I set the bread on the tables centre; she moves it toward the fridge. We both knowwere grasping for control where none exists.
Later, I work at the laptop while she reads under a blanket on the sofa. Dusk lingers unnaturally long; the light stays on from midday. At some point, she asks about weekend plansher voice level, careful. I dodge the question, unsure myself.
We cook together for dinner: she chops vegetables swiftly; I boil potatoes and fry chicken. We avoid each others gaze, discussing only food or cleaning.
By the dim glow of the desk lampthe overhead light long switched offtension thickens between us, warm and dense.
I noticeshe barely touches the chicken, pushing the side dish around; I align the cutlery mechanically, dead-centre. Outside, rain or late snow patters the ledge.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down.
*”Lets talk honestly?”*
I nodmy voice shakes worse than my hands.
*”Im scared to start over To get it wrong again.”*
*”Me toolosing you, or being in the way here.”*
We talk for hoursabout the time apart, unspoken grudges, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of playing roles even at home, what we each thought alone in the dark.
No one accusesjust admissions: how hard it is to rebuild bridges, how much pain lingers inside.
She says,
*”I want to try again But if you leave nowI wont take you back.”*
I answer,
*”Im already here So I want to stay.”*
Afterwards, the kitchen feels differentno longer cold or foreign. She clears the plates silently; I rise to help. No questionsjust taking the fork from her hand, rinsing sauce under the tap. She sets cups down, fingers brushing mineaccidentally? Who knows. Washing up together is easier than arguing over whose turn it is. I pass her wet plates; she dries them, not meeting my eyes. But the tension is gonethe careful distance that held us apart all day.
Later, we end up in the sitting room. I crack the windowa draught carries the scent of damp earth. Melting snow and grime litter the sill, but the air feels lighter. She curls up with her book; I settle beside her with the laptop. Work is impossiblemy thoughts keep returning to her words at dinner.
Time slips by. One of us murmurs about cold tea or harsh lamplight. Then silence again. And suddenly, this *together*quiet, unassumingfeels right, as if theres finally space for both of us without pretense.
Before bed, I fetch water from the kitchen. Her footsteps followshe fills the kettle for herbal tea. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder by the window, droplets streaking the glass. She pours boiling waterblack tea long gonesteeping chamomile for herself. We cradle our mugs, warmth seeping through porcelain.
In the bedroom, she offers a brief smile before sliding under the covers. The space between us remainsbut its no longer a barrier.
Morning arrives softlythe first break in clouds for days. Pale dawn seeps through curtains, strange after weeks of gloom.
We wake almost at once. For a moment, we lie still, listening to dripping eaves and distant traffic. I reach for my phonethen stop. No rush today, not like before.
She turns onto her side.
*”Put the kettle on?”*
No tensionjust weariness, something like a smile in her voice.
*”Sure,”* I say, just as calm.
We leave the bedroom together. I fill the kettleit sits nearer the stove now. She fetches mugs without hesitation, setting the sugar bowl between usas though its always been there.
While the water boils, she wipes the tablestill smells of last nights rainand I pick tea bags. A glance: green or black? The corner of her mouth lifts.
*”Green today.”*
I nod, steeping both cups strongno argument now.
We sit by the window opposite each other. For the first time, it feels easyno chair claimed, no territory. Outside, snow melts fast, droplets drumming the ledge through the open pane.
Breakfast passes almost wordless. I slice bread thinhow she likes it. She takes a whole applenever used to. Our reflections blur in the glass, and I realisethis is what new closeness looks like, invisible to outsiders, shifting inside a shared morning.
When we finish, she clears her plate straight away. I linger by the window, listening to the drip of thaw, the chill on my cheeks. Then shes beside me, her palm resting lightly on my shoulder.
*”Thanks.”*
For what? Breakfast? For staying? Or just because this morning is ours now?
No need to ask. A faint smile is enoughthe fragile, real order of things.
