He didn’t call. But she was still here.
From the early morning, Grace had left her phone on loud. Just in case. Though deep down, she knew—he wouldn’t ring. Not because he forgot. Not because he didn’t want to. Simply because he wouldn’t. Just like letters never arrive when you aren’t waiting for them, yet you check the mailbox anyway. Like people who’ve already walked away for good never come back.
But she left it on. Because hope is stubborn. Even when your heart has long surrendered, it clings on. Quieter, but not gone. Grace styled her hair—messy but deliberate, as if by accident yet still lovely. She slipped into her grey coat—the one he once said made her look like “autumn bottled into a person.” Since then, she’d rarely worn it. Only for occasions. Though today, she was just going to the chemist and the bakery.
She painted her lips bright scarlet. Too bold for a dreary morning. But she didn’t care. Or perhaps—she cared all the more.
The chemist was crowded. Someone grumbled, someone coughed, another scolded the pharmacist over the price of pills. The air was thick—syrup, menthol, winter coats, and cold. Grace picked up vitamins. The ones he once recommended—”for energy, since you’re always worn out.” That was two years ago. She held the box longer than necessary, staring at the expiry date. June next year. As if even they had their own “until.”
The bakery was unchanged. The girl with the brow ring and tired eyes. The scent of fresh buns. And the familiar, achingly ordinary cranberry pastry—he’d called it the “taste of childhood.” Back then, laughing, sipping coffee, he’d leave crumbs on his lips, and for some reason, that felt tender to her. Grace bought two. One she’d eat at home, like before—tea at the kitchen table, staring out the window. The other… she’d just leave there. Let it be. Let it whisper that something once was.
When she got home, silence met her. Not the cozy kind—heavy. The sort where you hear your own heartbeat. The air in the flat stood still, like water in a sealed jar—dense, stale. Her phone lay on the windowsill, face down, as though it, too, avoided her gaze. No calls. No messages. Empty. As if the day had passed without her. Or as if she herself had turned slightly transparent.
She took off her coat carefully, slowly—afraid to disturb her own balance. Undid the buttons, hooked it up. Placed her shoes neatly. Everything in order. As if in that order lay protection. She turned on the radio. They talked about the pound’s exchange rate, then the coming frost, then a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. It all sounded muffled, as if through glass.
The kettle boiled. She poured the water. Took a sip—burned her tongue. But didn’t pull away. Swallowed. Hot. Straight to the heart.
Grace went to the window, pressed her palms to the glass. Outside, fine snow—almost dust—fell. Flakes settled on strangers’ shoulders, melted on woolly gloves. A man in a black jacket adjusted a little girl’s scarf—gentle, sure. Nearby, an elderly couple walked hand in hand, as if time between them had paused, their silver hair the only hint that years moved on. People passed. Smiled. Hurried. Lived.
Past her.
Past her window, past her silence. Like a train she didn’t board. Or missed.
He didn’t call.
But she swept the floor. Phoned her mum—listened to it all: the blood pressure, the downstairs neighbour, the new scone recipe. Watered the fern—meticulously, checking each leaf, as though it, too, needed tending. Booked her flu jab—the one she’d put off since autumn. Checked her banking app—nothing new, but she felt steadier. Washed the towels. Added scented conditioner—just for the smell, like sea salt. Though she’d never cared for the sea.
That evening, she turned on every light. Not out of fear. Just—for warmth. So the house wouldn’t feel hollow. So even her reflection in the glass wouldn’t seem alone.
And looking at herself there—hair loose, warm jumper, socked feet—she thought:
*He didn’t call. But I’m still here. I exist.*
Not as blame. Not in tears. Just—like a candle lit in a dark room. Not for anyone to see. But so she’d feel a little brighter.
