**A Shared Morning**
I stand outside the flat where I havent spent the night in months. The keys tremble in my handoutside, its all sleet and damp, fingers long gone stiff. The streetlamp glows in the puddles by the entrance, footprints stamped into the slush. I pull the door open, careful not to make a sound, and immediately notice the air inside is differentwarmer, slightly humid, as if someone keeps cracking the window despite the radiators blasting.
The hallway greets me with the scent of fresh laundry and something elseleftovers, maybe. I drop my bag by the wall, noticing the shoes arent arranged as Id left them. On the hook, her scarf drapes over my coat. Everythings *almost* where it should be, but the moment I kick off my boots, its clear: this order formed without me. She steps out of the kitchen, smiling just a little too tightly. *Dinner wont take long to heat up*, she says. I answer just as carefully. Our voices skate over the surface of things, both of us listening to ourselves, to each other, afraid to disturb something unspoken.
The living room is dim. Outside, the streetlamps cast watery shapes on the walls. She clicks on the lamp, and I glance aroundbooks rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things sit in a neat pile on the armchair. I feel like both a guest and the owner. We sit at the table. She slides a plate of pasta and roasted veg in front of me. We eat in silence, forks scraping porcelain. I want to ask*how was it here without me, did you miss me at all?*but the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She tells me about a new project, about staying late yesterday. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up; I unpack my bag, slotting things onto shelves. All the while, a nagging thought*wheres my place here now?* She steps out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window click open. The air shifts, fresher. Were both testing boundarieswho puts their mug where, whose towel hangs where. By bedtime, we settle on our own sides. The lights go off at the same time, a strip of cold air between us.
Morning comes early. Im first to the bathroom, listening to her footsteps outside. The pipes groan as the tap runs. I hurry so she wont have to wait. In the kitchen, I hunt for tea and find two mismatched mugs. *Which one should I use?* *Either*, she says. But theres a trap in that. I make her black tea, mine green. She wordlessly nudges the sugar bowl closer to her. We breakfast at the small table by the window. Outside, patches of wet snow cling to the pavement, dripping from the ledge. I steal glancesher eyes are tired, lips slightly pursed.
After, we get ready separately but collide at the mirror, both fumbling for keys. She leaves first, waiting on the landing. I lock up, her breath soft beside me. The lift ride is silent, just the distant hum of the street below.
That evening, we go to the shop together. Outside, our boots sink into wet tarmac. Inside, the lights are too bright. I ask about the shopping list. *Milk, bread, apples, something for tea*, she says shortly. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. *Weve had too much pasta.* We bicker over small thingshow much milk to buy, whether we need yoghurtholding onto 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 awkward pause stretches all the way to the door. On the walk back, were both too tired to talk.
At home, we unpack in silence. I set the bread in the middle of the table; she moves it by the fridge. We both knowwere grasping for control where none exists.
That night, I work at my laptop while she reads under a blanket on the sofa. Dusk lingers outside; we flick the lamps on early. At one point, she asks about weekend plansher voice steady but cautious. I dodge the question because I dont know either.
Dinners a joint effort: she chops veg briskly; I boil potatoes and fry chicken. We avoid each others eyes, talking only about food or clearing up. Under the dim glow of the lampthe main bulbs been off since noonthe tension between us thickens, warm and heavy.
I notice: she barely touches the chicken, pushing the sides around with her fork. I align my cutlery dead centre. Outside, rainor maybe late snowticks against the ledge.
Then she sets her fork down. *Can we talk? Properly?* My voice shakes more than my hands as I nod.
*Im scared to start over. I dont want to get it wrong again.*
*Im scared tooof losing you, or of not belonging here anymore.*
We talk for hoursabout the time apart, the unsaid grievances, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of playing roles even at home, what we each thought in the dark without the other.
No accusationsjust honesty about how hard it is to rebuild bridges, how much hurt still lingers.
*I want to try again*, she says. *But if you walk away now, I wont ask you back.*
*Im here*, I say. *That means I want to stay.*
After, the kitchen feels differentless cold, less foreign. She stacks plates; I rise to help, taking the fork from her hand. The tap runs. She sets cups beside me, fingers brushing minean accident? I dont ask. 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 from earlier is gone.
Later, in the living room, I crack the window opendamp earth scent seeps in. She curls up with a book; I half-work, half-think about what she said. Time blurs. One of us murmurs about tea going cold or the lamp being too bright. Then silence again. Yet this *together*, quiet as it is, feels rightlike theres finally room for both of us without pretending.
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, watching droplets slide down the pane. She pours boiling waterblack teas long gonethen steeps chamomile for herself. We cradle our mugs, warmth seeping into our palms.
In the bedroom, she offers a small smile before sliding under the covers. The space between us remains, but it doesnt feel like a barrier anymore.
Morning arrives softly. Outside, the clouds have finally cleared. Pale dawn light filters through the curtainsstrange after weeks of gloom.
We wake at the same time. For a moment, we just lie there, listening to dripping gutters and distant traffic. I reach for my phone, then stop. Nowhere to rush today.
She turns onto her side. *Put the kettle on?* No tensionjust quiet warmth, something like a smile in her voice.
*Sure*, I say, just as easy.
We pad to the kitchen together. I fill the kettleit lives nearer the stove now. She grabs two mugs without hesitation, sets the sugar between us like its always been there.
While the water boils, she wipes the tablestill smelling of last nights rainand I pick tea bags. I glance at her: *green or black?* She quirks a half-smile. *Green today.* I brew both strongno arguing this time.
We sit by the window, facing each other. For once, neither chair feels claimed. Outside, the last snow melts fast, droplets pattering the sill.
Breakfast is near-wordless. I slice 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, unseen shifts in a shared morning.
As we finish, she clears her plate straight away. I linger by the window, listening to the drip-drip, cool air on my cheeks. Then her hand rests lightly on my shoulder. *Thanks.*
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Just because its *our* morning now?
Neither of us asks. A smile is enoughand the fragile, real sense of something new.
