“You were never a friend to me,” said the neighbour, tearing the letter in half.
Margaret Whitmore stood on the threshold of her flat, watching as the torn scraps of paper fluttered to the floor of the hallway. Her heart pounded as if shed run a marathon, though shed only climbed to the third floor.
“Eleanor, wait,” she called after her neighbour. “Lets talk properly.”
“Whats there to say?” Eleanor Turnbull turned her back, fumbling with her keys. “Its all been said. That letter said everything.”
Margaret bent down, gathering the torn pieces with trembling fingers. The words blurred through her tears as she tried to piece them together.
“Ellie, love, just hear me out,” she pleaded.
“Im not your love,” Eleanor snapped without turning. “Its Mrs Turnbull to you now.”
The door slammed so hard the hallway window rattled. Margaret was left alone, clutching the shredded scraps in her hands.
She slowly rose, leaning against the wall. Her thoughts swirledhurt, shame, confusion. How had it come to this? Just that morning, theyd been sharing tea in her kitchen, complaining about the new neighbour downstairs who played music too loudly. Now
Margaret stepped inside and sat at the kitchen table. Before her lay the copy of that very letter, the one Eleanor had just torn apart. The letter shed written three nights ago, drowning in despair.
That evening, shed had a mild heart attack. Just enough to terrify her. Lying on the hallway floor, clutching her chest, shed been certain it was the end. And thered been no oneher son in America, her daughter in another city, her husband long gone. Utterly alone in the world.
When the pain eased, shed dragged herself to her sons old computer and poured everything onto the pageher fear, her loneliness, the crushing weight of isolation. She wrote of her dread of dying forgotten, of having no one to confide in, of the ache of empty rooms.
And then, the words she now regretted most: “Youre lucky, Ellie. Your children are nearby, your grandchildren visit. And me? Just fading away in this empty flat like some old, useless thing. I envy you, honestly. I envy you so much.”
By morning, shed meant to throw it away. But then her daughter called, ranting about work troubles, about her husband drinking again. The call ended badly, her daughter hanging up in tears. And Margaret, in her own distress, had posted the letter. To Eleanor. Her only friend.
Now she sat, cursing her foolishness.
Through the wall came the familiar soundsEleanor moving about, clattering dishes. This was usually their tea time. Margaret would brew it strong; Eleanor would bring biscuits or sweets. Theyd chat for hours.
She pressed her ear to the wall. The kettle whistled, water ran. Comforting sounds, now sharp with loss.
Margaret returned to the table, rereading the letter. Yes, shed written foolish things. Yes, shed hurt her friend. But was fifteen years of friendship worth losing over one moment of weakness?
Theyd met when Margaret first moved in. Her husband had been ill then, and Eleanor had helpedfetching prescriptions, sitting with him when hospital visits were needed. After his funeral, it was Eleanor who kept her from crumbling, who made her eat, who listened. Together, theyd faced grief, errands, even the cemetery visits.
When Eleanors mother fell ill, Margaret had returned the kindnesscooking meals, babysitting grandchildren, keeping watch at the hospital.
So much shared. Joy, sorrow, illness, holidays. All ruined by one stupid letter.
Margaret dialled her daughter.
“Mum?” came the rushed reply. “Im at workwhats wrong?”
“Grace, Ive had a terrible row with Eleanor.”
“And? Youll make up. Youre both grown women.”
“She wont speak to me. Said I was never her friend.”
“Mum, Ive a meeting in ten minutes. Well talk tonight, alright?”
The line went dead. Margaret hung up and weptnot at her daughters dismissal, but at the realisation: there was no one left to tell.
Before, shed have gone to Eleanor. Now, where could she go?
That evening, unfamiliar voices echoed in the hall. Eleanor had brought someone home.
“Come in, Lydia,” Eleanor was saying. “Ill put the kettle on.”
“Will your neighbour mind?” asked the stranger.
“Oh, her?” Eleanor scoffed. “Just a sour old woman living upstairs. Always complainingmusic too loud, hallway too dirty, something or other.”
Margaret froze by the door.
“I thought you got on well with your neighbours,” Lydia said.
“Well, one must be polite,” Eleanor replied, her laugh brittle. “Truth is, its miserable here. Especially with certain people.”
The voices faded. Margaret stood there, cheeks burning. So thats what Eleanor thought of her. A sour old woman.
But shed never complained without reason. Only when the noise or filth became unbearable. And even then, shed tried not to nag.
She sat by the kitchen window, watching twilight settle over the city. Lights flickered in distant flatsfamilies dining, children tucked in, lives unfolding. And hers? Empty rooms, a cold supper, and a shattered heart.
The next morning, Margaret tried again. She baked sconesEleanors favouriteand knocked.
“Eleanor? Its me. Can we talk?”
Silence. Then footsteps, but the door stayed shut.
“Ellie, please. I made scones. Just like you like them.”
“Dont want them,” came the muffled reply. “Nothing to say.”
“Dont be childish! Were grown women!”
“And grown women own their words,” Eleanor shot back. “That lettersuch horrible things. I never knew you thought of me that way.”
Margaret leaned against the door.
“I dont! I was justso lonely, so frightened. I wrote things I didnt mean.”
“Truth comes out when were hurt,” Eleanor said. “Easy to pretend when things are fine.”
“I wasnt pretending! Youre my closest friend. My only friend!”
“Friends dont envy each other. Dont write such cruel things.”
Margaret sighed. She left the scones by the door and walked away.
By evening, they were gone. A flicker of hopemaybe Eleanor had taken them. But the next day, the plate reappeared, spotless, with a note: “Thank you for the scones. E.T.”
Formal. Distant. As if to a stranger.
Days dragged, colourless and dull. Groceries, meals, the tellyall meaningless without Eleanors company. Her daughter rang out of duty, her son hadnt called in months. “Busy with work,” hed say. Too busy for his mother.
In the hallway, she began crossing paths with Lydiathe woman from Eleanors flat. Neatly dressed, sharp-eyed, polite but cool.
One day, they queued together at the shops.
“Youre Eleanors neighbour, arent you?” Lydia asked.
“Yes. And youre her friend?”
“An old colleague. She helps with my grandson sometimes. Wonderful woman, your neighbour.”
“She is,” Margaret agreed.
“She mentioned things were difficult between you. A shame, really. At our age, every friend is precious.”
Margaret said nothing.
“You know,” Lydia added quietly, “shes hurting too. Too proud to show it.”
“She is?”
“Terribly. Said fifteen years of friendship, gone in an instant. Blames herself as much as you.”
“Herself? For what?”
“Said she overreacted. That you were hurting, and instead of kindness, she gave you anger.”
Margarets pulse quickened.
“She really said that?”
“Truly. But shes afraid to reach out. Thinks youll reject her after everything.”
They inched forward in silence.
“What should I do?” Margaret whispered.
“I dont know,” Lydia admitted. “But try. Lifes short, and real friends are rare.”
That night, Margaret sat by the window, thinking. Maybe Lydia was right. Maybe Eleanor was suffering too, just as lost as she was.
The next day, she knocked again.
“Ellie, I know youre there. Lets talk properly.”
Silence.
“Lydia told me youre upset too.”
A creakEleanor moving closer.
“Ellie, love, lets not be stubborn old goats. Were friends. Real friends. Fifteen years cant be undone by one stupid letter.”
“You really believe that?” Eleanors voice was barely audible.
“Of course! Ellie, youre family to me. Im lost without you. Forgive me for that letter. I wasnt myself.”
“And Im sorry for my words,” Eleanor murmured. “I was too harsh.”
The locks clicked. The door opened. Eleanor stood there, eyes red
