27th November
“Leave the keys on the table,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes.
For a second, I froze, clutching the keyring to my chest as if it held more than just the way out of the flat. It took me a moment to process his wordsand I dont think he even knew what he was saying. Just the first thing that masked his irritation.
“I dont understand,” I said evenly. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he threw back, turning away to stare out the window.
Outside, a fine drizzle clung to the airless like rain, more like a trembling mist. The kind of damp autumn morning that seeps into your bones, leaving streaks on the windowsill. Not the worst day for an ending. Not the best, either.
I walked silently to the kitchen. Dropped the keys on the table with a clatter, sat on the stool, and stared at them. Not at him. At the keys. Just yesterday, theyd let me back into what Id called home. Everything had been if not good, then familiar.
“What now?” I asked, flat.
“Dunno,” he still didnt turn. “Just its for the best.”
“For who?”
He shrugged. “Everyone.” But the pause that followed made it clear: for him.
I stood slowly, tracing the flatmy flat, really. Every corner held something of me. The curtains Id picked after three hours, laughing with Sarah in John Lewis. The pots, the china, even the knivesall from my paychecks. Hed contributed once, before the debts, the loans, his mums illness. Somehow, it all settled on me. And I hadnt complained. Id waited, believing hed sort himself out, that things would turn around.
Now he stood by the window asking me to leave the keys.
“Is there someone else?” I asked, passing him.
“Thats not the point,” he said, barely audible.
“I didnt ask about the point. I asked: is there someone else?”
He turned then, a flicker of a glance, caught between thought and guilt.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Someone. Were just talking for now.”
“Just?” I scoffed. “You always say that when youre lying. Just talking, dont overthink it, its nothing. I remember the script, Tom.”
He sighed like Id nagged him about socks on the floor. Something too trivial to argue.
“Emily, lets not do this. Im not a kid.”
“No, youre not. But youre acting like one. Burning everything down for a taste of something new. What then? Crawl back when it fizzles?”
“No.”
“So its serious?”
“I didnt say that. I said its over. Were tired of each other. You know we are.”
“I know people dont tire of each other. They tire of lies. And I wasnt tired. I was waiting. While you made decisions alone.”
He shrugged. “Just go.”
I nodded. Wordlessly, I fetched my old suitcase from the bedroomthe one Id taken to Sarahs in Brighton years ago. Kept it on the top shelf, never imagining Id need it. Turns out I did.
Not much to pack: work clothes, two dresses, a hairbrush, a half-read book. And a photo. Us on a park bench, grinning like idiots, back when we believed always was a promise, not a delusion.
He hovered in the doorway, not crossing the threshold.
“If you need help”
“Dont. Youve helped enough. Thanks for saying it to my face, at least. Couldve been a text.”
He scratched his neck. “You know Id never do that.”
“I do. But it doesnt make you better. Just more honest. And honesty without decency? Cheaper than a two-pence coin.”
His gaze dropped. He knew there was no arguing here.
“Where will you go?”
“Sarahs,” I said shortly. “The one you couldnt stand. The one you called a meddling cow. Funnyshe told me two years ago you werent the one.”
“And you ignored her?”
“Of course. I loved you. Thought she was just jealous.”
“And now?”
“Now I think she was right.”
He moved closer, sat on the edge of the bed. Stared at the suitcase like it was a coffin.
“Em Stay tonight. Leave in the morning.”
“Why?”
“Just its rough, you going out in the rain with a suitcase. People will stare.”
“People will stare,” I repeated softly, smiling. “And did you think of me once this morning?”
His silence stretched longer than any answer.
“Im not proud,” I continued. “Im not stupid, either. I knew you were drifting. Knew you werent really at Daves from work. Saw the hairs in the shower that werent mine. I just let it drag. Wanted you to be the one to choose. Not me pushing you outyou walking away.”
“So I was supposed to leave sooner?”
“Doesnt matter. What matters is its clear now. And dont hold me back. This isnt even anger. Its exhaustion. Deep as a mineshaft.”
He stood, turned back to the window. Watched the raindrops slide down the glass.
I grabbed my coat from the hook, slipped on my shoes. Paused at the door, suitcase in one hand, bag in the other.
“Goodbye, Tom.”
“Good luck, Emily.”
“Change the locks. Just in case I forget myself.”
No reply.
When the door clicked shut, he sank onto the stool Id just left, staring at the keys. My ring had left a dent in the wood. He traced it with his thumb. Not painful. Just hollow.
Outside, the drizzle lingered, but I didnt open my umbrella. Only a few blocks to Sarahs, but my legs shooknot from cold. I stopped by Boots, set the suitcase down, slumped onto a bench.
An old woman with a Tesco bag eyed me. “Alright, love?”
I nodded, forcing a smile. “Better now. Just hard to breathe. Itll pass.”
She hummed knowingly. “Happened to me. Thirty years with my husband. Then he leftfor some young thing. Started over. Never regretted it. Now my sons near, my daughter fusses. And him? Dead before fifty. Stroke.”
“Thats bleak.”
“Lifes like autumn. Seems like everythings dying, really its just making room.”
I tilted my face up. The rain had eased. A sliver of light pierced the clouds, like a nod: you did the right thing.
I thanked her, stood, walked on. The suitcase clattered over pavement, but the noise felt less like a burden nowmore like the rhythm of a new step.
Back in the flatmy voice already erasedTom poured strong tea, sat at the table, and touched the keys.
How long before he realised? He hadnt let go of a woman. Hed let go of the only real thing hed ever had.
Sarahs stairwell smelled of fried onions and something homely, forgotten. She opened the door in a flour-dusted apron, hands sticky with dough. Took one look at the suitcase and clicked her tongue.
“Come in.”
I set the case by the wall, shrugged off my coat.
“You baking?”
“Cheese and onion pasties. Still time for a hot one,” she said, vanishing into the kitchen. Muttered over her shoulder: “And whisky if you need it.”
I sank onto the sofa. The room hadnt changed in ten yearssame scuffed TV, same dried roses in the crystal vase. Even Sarah was the same, just shorter hair, rounder cheeks.
“He ended it?” she finally asked.
“Not exactly. I left.”
“Ah.” She sat beside me, wiping her hands. “Your choice or his?”
“He said, Leave the keys on the table.”
“Classy. Very bloke-ish,” she sneered. “Found some tart with big tits and no common sense?”
“Found someone. Dont know if shes brainless. But its not my business now.”
“Your business, Em, is knowing you did it proper. No lies to your face. Butyou didnt lie to yourself, did you?”
I hesitated. Had I? But I knew this: no going back. Not to that flat, not to those evenings of “you always” and “you never”.
The pasties smelled like childhood. Sarah poured whiskyno toast needed. We drank in silence. Then we chatted about nothing: her chasing that bloke from flat 4B, sneaking to the river as teens, the time we boiled condensed milk till the tin exploded.
By dusk, I curled under a blanket by the window, staring through the glass as if answers hid in the dark
