He Didn’t Write It

Yesterday morning Poppy cranked her phone up to full tilt, just in case. Deep down she knew he wouldnt text. The feeling was like the ominous hum before a drizzleslow, inevitable, as if the air itself had thickened before a storm. Still, she turned the volume up. Hope, she thought, was a bit like an old scar: it aches but refuses to let go.

She tossed her hair into a casual bun, giving it just enough care to look effortless yet tidy. On, she slipped her favourite olive coatthe very one hed once teased her for looking like an autumn wood. Shed barely worn it since that comment, but today she dug it out of the wardrobe. Then she painted her lips a bold scarlet, far brighter than the muted palette one would expect on a stroll to the chemist and the bakery.

The chemist was a bustling hive. A bloke wheezed in the corner, a lady haggled over the price of a pack of paracetamol, and a few others shifted from foot to foot in quiet impatience. The air smelled of herbs and something sharply medicinal. Poppy grabbed the multivitamins hed recommended three years ago, back when they still shared a morning coffee. She turned the tiny packet over, reading the fine print: Best before next autumn. As if even that little box were counting down its own ticking clock.

At the bakery, everything was as predictably comforting as ever: a tattooed lad behind the counter, the warm perfume of fresh bread and cinnamon, and a battered speaker humming a lazy tune. She ordered a raspberry croissantthe very one hed once called the taste of morning while wiping crumbs from his chin. She took two. One for tea at home, like the simple days when everything seemed easier. The other, just because. A tiny morsel of the past she could tuck into her pocket.

Back home she halted in the doorway. The flat was hushed, heavy like dust settled on old books. The air seemed frozen, as if it were too shy to move. Her phone lay facedown on the windowsill, as embarrassed as a child caught staring. No messages, no missed calls. It felt as though the world had politely walked past, oblivious to her presence. She herself felt like a shadow melting into the grey morning light.

She set the kettle on, slipped off the coat slowly, as though she might scare the silence away. She placed her shoes neatly by the door, straightened the coats collar on the rack. She flicked on the old radio; the announcer droned about traffic jams, a sudden snow forecast, then a new exhibition at the local museum. Everything sounded muffled, like voices underwater. She took a sip of teascalding, almost burningbut swallowed without a grimace. She moved to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass.

Outside, snow fell in fine, prickly flakes, landing briefly on umbrellas, scarves, the pavement, and vanishing again. A young dad in a dark park coat adjusted his sons hat with the kind of gentle care that comes from years of practice. Elderly pairs shambled along, leaning on each other as if their arms had fused over decades. Some hurried, slipping on the icy pavement; others laughed, eyes glued to their phones; a few lingered at a shop window adorned with twinkling Christmas lights. Life went onnoisy, vibrant, indifferentgliding past her like a train that left the platform just as she hesitated to board.

He didnt write.

Nevertheless, Poppy grabbed a broom and swept the floor, though there was hardly any dust. She rang Aunt Margaret, listening to tales of the garden, the neighbours new dog, and a recipe for a Victoria sponge that had gone terribly right. She gave the wilting cactus a careful drink, checking it hadnt turned yellow. She booked a doctors appointmenta trivial thing shed been postponing for months. She sorted through the receipts, ticked off the paid bills in her planner. She washed the throw blanket, adding a splash more fabric softener so the house smelled of something warm and livedin.

In the evening she lit the lights in every roomnot because she feared the dark, but because the house seemed alive when the windows glowed, reflecting on the damp pavement like it was whispering, Someones here. Lifes still here.

Poppy stared at her reflection in the glass and thought, He didnt write. But I am still here. No excuse, no challenge, just a quiet truth. Like a candle you light not for anyone else, but for yourselfto remember youre still present.