*Diary Entry*
Thirty-five years in this city, and only today did it dawn on me that I no longer belong here. The realisation didn’t come with tears or heavy sighs—just a quiet, indifferent understanding, as if I’d suddenly noticed my old coat had long been frayed at the seams, yet I’d kept wearing it anyway.
Eleanor woke at six. The flat was damp with cold, the walls resigned to the fact the heating had been cut off. In the kitchen, the kettle hissed violently, spewing steam with a desperate whistle. Outside, rows of identical tower blocks stretched into the murky dawn, grey and lifeless. On the windowsill lay a water bill, weighed down by a postcard from her daughter, sent two years ago. The silence was absolute—unbroken by the telly or the shuffle of footsteps. The kind where every creak in your soul echoes.
She went to the shop—worn jeans, tangled hair, hood pulled up. The street glistened after last night’s downpour, the tarmac reflecting the dismal sky as if pretending to be alive. The queue at the till was silent, like a stalled train at a station. The woman ahead had a trolley filled with coal and milk—three bags of coal, four bottles of milk. Neatly arranged, as if following a list scribbled in a moment of despair.
“Are you stocking up for winter?” Eleanor asked, just to break the stifling quiet.
The woman turned. Her eyes were empty, but her voice was solid as granite.
“No. My mum’s passed. Need to fix the fireplace. And brew tea. For someone.”
No emotion, just words that cut like glass. Eleanor nodded, not because she understood, but because she had no reply. What do you say when coal is for solitude, and milk for the faint hope that someone might still come?
She left the shop and didn’t go home. The words rattled in her head—*”And brew tea. For someone.”* It struck her then: she hadn’t made tea for anyone in years. Not even herself.
She wandered through the city—peeling benches, the chemist’s with its perpetually scowling staff, the house with the crack down its front like an old scar. Every crossroads, every step, the same worn-out record on repeat. The people felt like strangers, as if the city had quietly swapped their faces while she wasn’t looking. No one from her past remained—just dissolving traces in old letters, forgotten numbers, unread texts.
Her daughter was in London. Her ex-husband, somewhere beyond the horizon. Her job—a waste of time. Money wasn’t the problem. The flat felt like an old suitcase—too much to abandon, too heavy to carry.
She took the bus to the station on a whim. No plan. Bought tea in a cardboard cup and a one-way ticket. Chose a town at random, jabbing her finger at the timetable. She needed somewhere life hadn’t frozen solid, where each day wasn’t a rerun but something new.
On the train, fields flashed past—telegraph poles, scattered villages, like clips from an old film. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Not from grief, but relief, as if someone had lifted an invisible weight off her shoulders—one she’d carried for years without realising. They were cleansing, like dust rinsed from her soul. She sent her daughter a voice note: *”I’ve gone to live. I’ll explain later.”* Her voice shook, but there was more light in it than fear. Her daughter replied: *”Mum, you alright? I’m here.”* Warmth. The kind she’d missed for so long.
Eleanor rented a room in a hostel—bare walls, a stack of abandoned books on the desk. The next day, she started at a little shop selling candles and postcards. No one asked about her past. Later, she found a tiny flat with wooden floors that creaked like old memories, the air smelling of morning tea. She walked. Read. Listened. Noticed—how dusk painted the sky, how rain tapped the roof, how the air thickened before a storm. It wasn’t a return to a place, but to herself.
One day at the market, an old vendor handed her a bag of pears and said, *”You’re not from here. But you fit.”* Not a compliment—a truth. Eleanor smiled, not out of politeness, but because she meant it. For the first time in years, she felt she belonged—right here, right now. Something inside clicked, like a key turning.
Seven months later, she went back to her city—just for a day. To collect papers. To let go of old things. To say what needed saying. The city greeted her coldly—same puddles, same grey walls, same indifferent noise. The flat smelled of abandonment. The furniture stood like relics, foreign and stiff. The air was thick, as if the windows hadn’t been opened in years. She took the kettle and a photo of her daughter as a child, holding it a long while. Left the rest behind—no pain, just the lightness of closing a book she’d read too long.
At the door, a neighbour called out:
“Ellie? That you? Where’ve you been? Thought you’d gone for good.”
The neighbour stood with a shopping bag, in an old coat, curiosity in her eyes but no warmth.
Eleanor answered softly,
“I’m learning to breathe.”
The neighbour frowned, about to ask more, but Eleanor was already down the stairs—light, free, no keys in her pocket, no looking back.
In her rucksack were milk and a bag of coal. Just in case. A reminder that life could be rebuilt—as long as you knew what you were building it for.
