I woke up three times today.

The first time was slow, almost deliberate, as if my body was surfacing through syrup.

The sun had already begun its quiet trespass, slipping around the curtains as it etched thin, sharp blades onto the bedroom walls.

As the light gathered, the room seemed to wake with me.

My head felt clear, my thoughts felt grounded.

Only one thing, really, to wish you a good day, maybe take you in to work.

I made my way downstairs,

The cardboard walls and metal staircase echoed under my feet in a way that felt strangely normal

I reached for the stair rail, barely registering the coarse, sandpaper texture.

Even when it scraped my palm, I pushed the irritation aside and kept going.

The kitchen door was open, so you shouldn’t have left

And you were there.

But the kitchen

It was empty.

Not just tidy but stripped.

As if a removal crew had come in the night and taken everything: the sink, the table, cupboards, the hum of the fridge, the smell of yesterday’s coffee.

Bare walls. No utility. A kitchen that wasn’t ours.

And somehow none of us reacted. None of us seemed to notice the absence, the wrongness, the way the room had been hollowed out.

We just stood there, silent in the space where our life should have been.

Then, without knowing how it started, we began to argue.

In each other’s faces, our misplaced passion tearing chunks from each other.

We argued until the words no longer mattered; only their intent to wound.

The screaming woke me bolt upright — the molasses gone.

The room was dark, as if the morning sun had somehow missed it.

I rushed this time, reaching the stairs.

The walls were carpeted, soft to the touch, but the wooden floorboards beneath me were cold and sticky… each step pulling at me, stretching thin before releasing, as if the floor itself refused to let go.

I grabbed the handrail as it softened to my grip, twisting around my arm, while the sticky floorboards clung to my feet.

Somehow, through the push and pull, I kept moving.

The kitchen door stood open. I stepped inside

And you were there.

The kitchen was still bare,

but this time warmer, the morning light managing to reach every crevice. Deliberate, almost gentle,

as if it were trying to reassure us despite the strangeness.

For a moment, we just looked at each other, both of us aware of the changes around us. The missing furniture. The carpeted walls. The way the house kept rewriting itself between breaths.

Only here could we ever understand the strange world in which we found ourselves wrapped.

It was a calm realisation, an understanding presence, something neither of us had felt for a decade.

Instead of arguing, instead of letting the wrongness pull us apart again,

you stepped toward me.

I felt your arms wrap around my shoulders, steady and certain, and I folded into you without hesitation.

We held each other in the middle of that empty, sun‑washed room. No shouting. No confusion. Just the quiet understanding that something was shifting,

that we were both scared.

That we were both sorry.

The house still felt different, but in that moment, your heartbeat didn’t.

And for the first time since waking, I felt anchored.

My eyes opened to a stillness.

Sun shards broke through the curtain edges, illuminating the dust as it hung in the air’s quiet turbulence.

The same thought hit me for the third time: to wish you a good day, maybe take you into work.

But this time, I craved the good, and I dreaded the bad,

and I remembered how I just sleepwalked between the two.

Slow now, I reached the stairs, hesitation following every step.

I felt the carpet on my bare feet.

I made my way downstairs, the handrail solid, stable, smooth, guiding me on.

I knew when I saw the kitchen door — closed.

You always closed it when you left.

I stepped into the kitchen as the dishwasher hummed me an indifferent good morning.

The smell of coffee hung in the air; everything seemed there.

Everything in its place, normality reminding me:

The emptiness now was you

The Maid of Orleans Part 1

I said nothing.

She was already flustered, drenched with that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Words wouldn’t land right now

Whatever I offered would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however cowardly it looked, was sometimes the least dangerous option.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

She turned anyway, the way storms always do when they’ve run out of sky.

Her face was red, her voice sharp and unanchored.

“Useless,” she spat, close enough that I could feel it. “You never help. Never.”

It wasn’t shouting so much as screaming— unfiltered, banshee-loud—meant not to be heard but to wound.

Something in me folded.

I left the hotel room before I could say anything unforgivable, before the bitterness grew.

The door closed behind me, and alone in the corridor, I broke, tears blurring the patterned carpet as I walked. My chest burned. My head rang.

And under my breath, through sobs I barely recognised as my own, the words came out ugly and desperate.

Words I didn’t mean, words born only from pain.

The hallway swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.

The Maid of Orleans Part 2

He said nothing

I was already flustered. The heat of menopause consumed me, leaving me drenched in that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

But he just lay there, seemingly uninterested.

Whatever I tried, whatever I demanded, would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however unfair it felt, was sometimes the sharpest weapon I had.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

He turned to leave.

His face was pale, jaw tight, eyes darting away. His silence cut as sharply as any word I could have thrown.

“The storm inside me broke; as if it had run out of sky, I could no longer hold it.”

“Useless,” I shouted, letting the syllables hit where they would. “You never help. Never.”

“You never say the words I need. You never hear me. You never see me.

Shouting turned to screaming as I wielded my truth—meant not to be heard but to mark the space, to assert the weight of what I carried alone.

I saw him fold. I saw the hesitation in the shoulders that always tried to seem strong.

I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to speak, to ground me, to fix what I knew he could not. But he left the room before the words could harden into anything permanent.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone with only the echoes of my own voice. Chest burning. Pulse thundering in my ears.

I whispered the words now, words I didn’t recognise, ugly, desperate—but not meaningless. They were the only words left that belonged to me.

The hotel room swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.

The Maid of Orleans Part 1

I said nothing.

She was already flustered, drenched with that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Words wouldn’t land right now

Whatever I offered would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however cowardly it looked, was sometimes the least dangerous option.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

She turned anyway, the way storms always do when they’ve run out of sky.

Her face was red, her voice sharp and unanchored.

“Useless,” she spat, close enough that I could feel it. “You never help. Never.”

It wasn’t shouting so much as screaming— unfiltered, banshee-loud—meant not to be heard but to wound.

Something in me folded.

I left the hotel room before I could say anything unforgivable, before the bitterness grew.

The door closed behind me, and alone in the corridor, I broke, tears blurring the patterned carpet as I walked. My chest burned. My head rang.

And under my breath, through sobs I barely recognised as my own, the words came out ugly and desperate.

Words I didn’t mean, words born only from pain.

The hallway swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.

The Maid of Orleans Part 2

He said nothing

I was already flustered. The heat of menopause consumed me, leaving me drenched in that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

But he just lay there, seemingly uninterested.

Whatever I tried, whatever I demanded, would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however unfair it felt, was sometimes the sharpest weapon I had.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

He turned to leave.

His face was pale, jaw tight, eyes darting away. His silence cut as sharply as any word I could have thrown.

“The storm inside me broke; as if it had run out of sky, I could no longer hold it.”

“Useless,” I shouted, letting the syllables hit where they would. “You never help. Never.”

“You never say the words I need. You never hear me. You never see me.

Shouting turned to screaming as I wielded my truth—meant not to be heard but to mark the space, to assert the weight of what I carried alone.

I saw him fold. I saw the hesitation in the shoulders that always tried to seem strong.

I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to speak, to ground me, to fix what I knew he could not. But he left the room before the words could harden into anything permanent.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone with only the echoes of my own voice. Chest burning. Pulse thundering in my ears.

I whispered the words now, words I didn’t recognise, ugly, desperate—but not meaningless. They were the only words left that belonged to me.

The hotel room swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.

The Maid of Orleans Part 1

I said nothing.

She was already flustered, drenched with that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Words wouldn’t land right now

Whatever I offered would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however cowardly it looked, was sometimes the least dangerous option.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

She turned anyway, the way storms always do when they’ve run out of sky.

Her face was red, her voice sharp and unanchored.

“Useless,” she spat, close enough that I could feel it. “You never help. Never.”

It wasn’t shouting so much as screaming— unfiltered, banshee-loud—meant not to be heard but to wound.

Something in me folded.

I left the hotel room before I could say anything unforgivable, before the bitterness grew.

The door closed behind me, and alone in the corridor, I broke, tears blurring the patterned carpet as I walked. My chest burned. My head rang.

And under my breath, through sobs I barely recognised as my own, the words came out ugly and desperate.

Words I didn’t mean, words born only from pain.

The hallway swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.

The Maid of Orleans Part 2

He said nothing

I was already flustered. The heat of menopause consumed me, leaving me drenched in that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

But he just lay there, seemingly uninterested.

Whatever I tried, whatever I demanded, would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however unfair it felt, was sometimes the sharpest weapon I had.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

He turned to leave.

His face was pale, jaw tight, eyes darting away. His silence cut as sharply as any word I could have thrown.

“The storm inside me broke; as if it had run out of sky, I could no longer hold it.”

“Useless,” I shouted, letting the syllables hit where they would. “You never help. Never.”

“You never say the words I need. You never hear me. You never see me.

Shouting turned to screaming as I wielded my truth—meant not to be heard but to mark the space, to assert the weight of what I carried alone.

I saw him fold. I saw the hesitation in the shoulders that always tried to seem strong.

I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to speak, to ground me, to fix what I knew he could not. But he left the room before the words could harden into anything permanent.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone with only the echoes of my own voice. Chest burning. Pulse thundering in my ears.

I whispered the words now, words I didn’t recognise, ugly, desperate—but not meaningless. They were the only words left that belonged to me.

The hotel room swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning

If you want my apologies, here, my dear, they are all yours.

They’ve steadily grown to the point they only weigh me down,

collected over decades,
hoarded like old newspapers.

They have little meaning now,
but they are yours to take.

If you want my regret, then here, my dear, it’s yours to keep.

It only burdens me now,
collected like football cards
long after the market died.

It’s grown heavy,
like clutter I never meant to keep.

If you want my sorrow, then here, my dear, take that as well.

Frayed at the edges now,
overworn and worn down,

folded and unfolded
until the creases become permanent.

It no longer fits,
like a coat I’ve outgrown,
kept only out of habit.

If you want my guilt, then here, my dear, it’s yours to claim.

I’ve carried it like loose change in my pockets,
jingling with every step,

reminding me of debts I never owed.

It’s worthless currency now,
but still — you may have it.

If you want my shame, then here, my dear — take it freely.

It’s a shadow that’s followed me through too many seasons,

stretching long in winter,
shrinking in summer,

never quite disappearing,
never quite belonging to me.

And if you want the last of what I’ve hoarded

the quiet fears,
the unspoken worries,
the midnight thoughts.

Stacked like boxes in a room I never dared to tidy.

Then here, my dear, take them all.

For I have nothing left to carry

but the space they leave behind.

They were packed so carefully.

I almost believed.

That they were mine.

The rain got heavier as I raced towards the Tesco Express, my legs carrying me as fast as they could without tipping into a sprint.

At first, leaving the Jockey, I only felt the occasional tap… tap… of raindrops on my hat. But only a few steps into the journey home, they grew in both size and frequency. Each tap felt like pennies now, the brim of my hat slowly filling with water.

Milk. Blackberries. Chocolate.
I repeated the list as the automatic doors opened for me,

unknowingly, at the worst possible time.

The in-store background music was harder to ignore tonight.

Not loud — just present.

The percussion hit me first: patient, deliberate, unrushed. It opened a space to settle into.

Then the synths — warm and suspended — hanging unresolved in the air above the freezer aisles.

Before a word was sung, I knew this was going to be an emotional milk run.

That intro — all space and restraint — It carries you somewhere distant, somewhere reflective, before you have a chance to defend yourself.

A song I had always loved,

but avoided for years, as I let it become, quietly, something else.

Goodbyes.
Eulogies.
For people loved and lost.

Blackberry prices have shot up recently.

My thoughts already redundant, noticing the crate was devoid of blackberries.

The lyrics kicked in as I took the raspberries — cheaper, not as zingy.

I flashed back to when we were discussing what to play for her funeral.

I didn’t recall her ever showing a particular liking for the song; in fact, I don’t recall her mentioning it at all.

But knowing her was knowing where her heart lay.

We knew it was the only song that could ever really tell her story.

>

The shift from drums to whispers of quiet conversation is subtle but powerful. It sets up isolation as the narration turns mythic, as she remains grounded in the mundane.

Two people, same moment, different realities.

My life echoed back to me before the freezer hum cut through, gently pulling me towards the dairy section.

Two pints of whole milk.

I repeated my mental shopping list as my mind multitasked, fighting with the lyrics.

>

The song opens fully; the suspended intro drops, the key changes, as the music reaches out of Africa and into your heart.

You can no longer ignore it now.

The emotion takes you.

Blackberries. Milk. Chocolate.

You try to get back on track.

It’s only Tesco.
It’s only shopping.

But it’s in your head now.

Any chocolate really…

I like Mint Aero or Bounty.

My mind foggy now.

I came to buy snacks and end up navigating my own head as it fights for space with the meal-deal offerings.

>

The first two lines of the second chorus.

The music pushes my decision — that, and Clubcard discounts on Yorkie bars.

It’s late now. Tesco closes at eleven. I glance at my watch.

The chorus rises again, hitting harder than it had any right to in a Tesco Express at 10:50 pm.

>

I race towards the self-serve machines,

thankful that they exist, for fear of having to deal with the cashier

lest they catch the tears building in my eyes.

>

The “cry” — a stand-in for something uncontained,

calling from the shopping aisles, heard at the edges of my consciousness,

while the wild dogs echo my inner distress…

>

The contradiction lingers with me, reminding me of the emotional truth of grief.

You want someone with you, but you also want to be alone.
You want connection, but you can’t bear it.

I scan the milk, the raspberries, the Yorkie bar.

“Unexpected item in the baggage area.”

Not now.

“Please wait for assistance.”

Not tonight.

Trapped in Tesco while Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti.

“Let me sort that for you,” a member of staff says at my shoulder.

They clear the error.

I hold my breath, fearing small talk that fortunately never arrives.

Relieved, I scan my Clubcard. The machine seems happy to inform me it has been accepted.

And then that line hits — the hardest line of all:

>

And a single tear runs down my right cheek….

It’s only a few short steps towards the door,

but it feels like forever as the closing lines shift from reflection to urgency.

>

The reprise builds as the longing increases.

You feel the regret.

You remember the missed chances,

and your soul aches for all the things left undone.

Seeing the exit, escape imminent, I stop resisting, and I bless the rains,

as a fragile dam of held-back memories finally bursts its banks.

The doors slide open and the rain meets me head-on, two tears running in unison down my cheeks as my hat once more feels the tap-tap of pennies.

Milk in my bag, Africa still echoing in my heart.

A few yards from home, a strange kind of victory.

>

I woke up three times today.

The first time was slow, almost deliberate, as if my body was surfacing through syrup.

The sun had already begun its quiet trespass, slipping around the curtains as it etched thin, sharp blades onto the bedroom walls.

As the light gathered, the room seemed to wake with me.

My head felt clear, my thoughts felt grounded.

Only one thing, really, to wish you a good day, maybe take you in to work.

I made my way downstairs,

The cardboard walls and metal staircase echoed under my feet in a way that felt strangely normal

I reached for the stair rail, barely registering the coarse, sandpaper texture.

Even when it scraped my palm, I pushed the irritation aside and kept going.

The kitchen door was open, so you shouldn’t have left

And you were there.

But the kitchen

It was empty.

Not just tidy but stripped.

As if a removal crew had come in the night and taken everything: the sink, the table, cupboards, the hum of the fridge, the smell of yesterday’s coffee.

Bare walls. No utility. A kitchen that wasn’t ours.

And somehow none of us reacted. None of us seemed to notice the absence, the wrongness, the way the room had been hollowed out.

We just stood there, silent in the space where our life should have been.

Then, without knowing how it started, we began to argue.

In each other’s faces, our misplaced passion tearing chunks from each other.

We argued until the words no longer mattered; only their intent to wound.

The screaming woke me bolt upright — the molasses gone.

The room was dark, as if the morning sun had somehow missed it.

I rushed this time, reaching the stairs.

The walls were carpeted, soft to the touch, but the wooden floorboards beneath me were cold and sticky… each step pulling at me, stretching thin before releasing, as if the floor itself refused to let go.

I grabbed the handrail as it softened to my grip, twisting around my arm, while the sticky floorboards clung to my feet.

Somehow, through the push and pull, I kept moving.

The kitchen door stood open. I stepped inside

And you were there.

The kitchen was still bare,

but this time warmer, the morning light managing to reach every crevice. Deliberate, almost gentle,

as if it were trying to reassure us despite the strangeness.

For a moment, we just looked at each other, both of us aware of the changes around us. The missing furniture. The carpeted walls. The way the house kept rewriting itself between breaths.

Only here could we ever understand the strange world in which we found ourselves wrapped.

It was a calm realisation, an understanding presence, something neither of us had felt for a decade.

Instead of arguing, instead of letting the wrongness pull us apart again,

you stepped toward me.

I felt your arms wrap around my shoulders, steady and certain, and I folded into you without hesitation.

We held each other in the middle of that empty, sun‑washed room. No shouting. No confusion. Just the quiet understanding that something was shifting,

that we were both scared.

That we were both sorry.

The house still felt different, but in that moment, your heartbeat didn’t.

And for the first time since waking, I felt anchored.

My eyes opened to a stillness.

Sun shards broke through the curtain edges, illuminating the dust as it hung in the air’s quiet turbulence.

The same thought hit me for the third time: to wish you a good day, maybe take you into work.

But this time, I craved the good, and I dreaded the bad,

and I remembered how I just sleepwalked between the two.

Slow now, I reached the stairs, hesitation following every step.

I felt the carpet on my bare feet.

I made my way downstairs, the handrail solid, stable, smooth, guiding me on.

I knew when I saw the kitchen door — closed.

You always closed it when you left.

I stepped into the kitchen as the dishwasher hummed me an indifferent good morning.

The smell of coffee hung in the air; everything seemed there.

Everything in its place, normality reminding me:

The emptiness now was you