I stand before the door of the flat I havent slept in for months. The keys tremble in my handoutside, the sleet has numbed my fingers. The lamplight glints in the puddles by the entrance, and footprints mar the slushy snow. I pull the door open quietly, and the air inside hits mewarm, damp, as if someones left the window cracked despite the radiators blasting.
The hallway smells of laundry and something elseperhaps last nights dinner. I drop my bag by the wall, noticing the shoes lined up differently. Her scarf hangs over my coat on the rack. Everythings in its place, yet not as I remember. When I kick off my boots, its clear: this order wasnt made for me. She steps out of the kitchen, smiling tightly. Says dinner wont take long. I answer just as carefully. Our voices skate over the surface, both of us listeningfor cracks, for unspoken things.
The room is dim. Beyond the window, streetlights paint streaks on the walls. She switches on the lamp. I glance around: the books have been rearranged, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things are stacked on the armchair. I feel like a guest and a trespasser at once. We sit at the table. She slides a plate of pasta and stewed vegetables toward me. We eat in silence, cutlery clinking. I want to askhow shes been, if she missed mebut the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She mentions a project, late nights. I nod.
The evening passes quietly: she washes up; I unpack, unsure where my things belong now. She steps out briefly, and I hear the kitchen window bang shut. The air shifts. We test boundarieswhose mug goes where, whose towel hangs where. By bedtime, we retreat to our sides. The light flicks off almost in unison, a strip of cold 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 wait. In the kitchen, I reach for teatwo mugs sit on the counter. I ask which is mine. Either, she says, but theres weight in it. I brew her black tea, mine green. She nudges the sugar bowl closer to her side. We eat breakfast by the window, sleet pattering outside. I steal glancesher eyes are tired, lips pressed thin.
We leave for the day, colliding in the hallway as we both reach for keys. She waits on the landing. I lock up, her breath audible beside me. The lift descends in silence, the hum of the city rising from below.
That evening, we trudge to the shop, boots slipping on wet pavement. Inside, the fluorescent lights sting. I ask for the list. Milk, bread, apples, something for tea, she says. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. Pastas tired. We bickerhow much milk, whether to get yoghurtholding our ground too long.
At checkout, I pull out my wallet first. She pretends to search for her card. I pay. The silence stretches to the doors. On the walk back, were both exhausted, words sparse.
At home, we unpack without speaking. I set the bread on the table; she moves it to the fridge. Both of us grasping for control where there is none.
Later, I work at the desk; she reads under a blanket. Dusk lingers outside. Eventually, she asks about weekend plansvoice steady, but careful. I hedge, unsure myself.
We cook together: she chops vegetables swiftly; I fry chicken, boil potatoes. We avoid each others eyes, discussing only the food or the mess.
At dinner, the lamps glow softens the tension between usthick yet warm. She pushes the chicken around her plate; I align my cutlery precisely. Rain taps the window.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. Can we talk honestly? My voice shakes worse than my hands as I nod. Im scared to start over. The words hang between us, heavier than silence. I look at her hands, the familiar scar on her knuckle, the way her thumb rubs the edge of the napkinsmall things Id forgotten I remembered. So am I, I say. Outside, the rain eases. She reaches across the table, just far enough to rest her hand near mine, not touching, but close. I turn my palm up, and after a breath, she takes it.
