Inside Other People’s Days
At first, no one noticed she was gone. Not her supervisor, who treated her as an afterthought, nor the neighbour with whom she’d once hung laundry on the shared line, nor even the woman at the bakery who always gave her change in pennies just to be petty. Life carried on as if she had never existed—or perhaps as if she still did, but no one truly saw her.
Evelyn Whitaker simply stopped leaving her flat. Not because she was ill, but because she realised—nothing she did mattered to anyone. The mornings, the tea, the chemist’s queue, the perfunctory remarks about the weather, the old telly shows no one watched anymore. And the worst of it? No one cared why it all stopped. No one asked. Not aloud, not even in silence.
The first week, she just lay there. Not ill, not suffering—just still. No telly, no books, no conversations. She stared at the ceiling, where a cobweb stretched from the corner to the lampshade like a graph of her days. She wondered: If I vanished for good, what then? The meter would keep running, the damp would creep up the wall, the cat would eat the bread crusts and then sit by the door, confused. No one would notice. Even the noise through the walls would stay the same.
Then the postwoman came. Young, thin, with lime-green nails and earrings shaped like ice cubes. She rang once, twice. Then rapped sharply, as if knocking not for a tenant but for a deaf wall. She muttered aloud, more to herself, “Odd, she’s not answering. Always took the papers.” And left. The next day, she came again. And again. Stubborn, refusing to let the world close entirely.
On the fourth day, Evelyn cracked.
“Why won’t you open up?” The girl’s voice was sharp, more exasperated than rude, when Evelyn finally unlatched the door. It rang too loud for the quiet of the stairwell but didn’t feel unwelcome.
“I—” She faltered. Her lips trembled; her voice came out softer than she’d meant. “Been feeling poorly.”
“For long? I was starting to fret. You’re the only one in the building who still takes the papers, you know. And I—well, I got to thinking: if *I* disappeared, who’d notice? Probably no one. Then I wondered—what if I’m not the only one who feels that way? So I had to check on you. You always said a morning’s not right without the news.”
Evelyn clutched the doorframe like a lifeline, her fingers whitening. She nodded, careful, as if any movement might break something fragile.
“I’m alright. Thank you for stopping by,” she said, her voice barely shaking.
The girl left, her quick footsteps fading into the hush of the landing. And Evelyn—remained. Not just in her flat. For the first time in years, she wasn’t alone. Not *with* someone, but *inside* someone’s thoughts. Someone had wondered about her. Someone had asked. And that was enough to shift the air in the room—warmer, like a window cracked open in spring.
The next day, she went out. Tentative, as if relearning the streets. She bought bread—fresh, warm, crust crunching under her fingers. Soap—plain, the harsh kind. And, on impulse, a boiled sweet in fox-printed paper, like the ones from childhood. Sunlight seeped through the clouds, and in the chemist’s window, she caught her reflection—and didn’t recognise it at first.
A woman behind her in the queue said, “You look well today.” Just like that, for no reason. And it was true. Because her eyes held something alive again.
Evelyn went home. Made tea. Thought it tasted different somehow. Dug out old notebooks—dusty with time. Opened one. Wrote, *“I am here.”* Slowly, clearly, in black ink.
Nothing more. But it was enough.
Sometimes, to come back, you don’t need an event. Not a reunion, not a disaster, not a fresh start. Just someone noticing—how long the silence has grown. And knocking on it.
