**Separate Kitchens and One Egg**
Sometimes people stop arguing. And that’s not peace anymore. That’s emptiness. That’s how it was with Nicholas and Emily. First, the fights—shouting, slamming doors, resentment, frantic reconciliations. Then—silence. There comes a point when even irritation fades. Just—nothing. No pain, no warmth. Only strangers under the same roof.
They’d lived together for twenty years. So much had happened: a rushed wedding, rented flats in London, sleepless nights with the kids, long evenings when it seemed love would conquer all. And then—it didn’t. Everything went quiet. They drifted apart, retreating to separate rooms like distant shores. Started eating separately. First, meals at different times. Then, different food. Eventually, they each had their own shelf in the fridge—like flatmates.
They never mentioned divorce. What was the point? What was there to say when every evening was just waiting for silence? Nicholas began taking trips to Bath—alone. There, he met a woman, Jane, calm and understanding. She listened well, never asked too much. He wrote her letters. Proper ones, on paper, pouring into them the words he couldn’t say at home.
And Emily… She just lived. Wore an old dressing gown, woke to the alarm, drank her morning tea. Silent. Barely spoke to her friends anymore—what was there to say when they all had “normal” lives?
Then, one ordinary morning. The kitchen smelled of toast and leftover grease. Emily stood at the stove. Small, fragile, as if she’d shrunk over the years. Before her—a tiny frying pan. In it, just one egg. Not an omelette, not scrambled eggs for two, not something for the family. Just one egg. For herself. That’s all.
Nicholas walked in, pouring tea. Preparing—not just for work, but for… a new life. He’d made up his mind, ready to say it. Even packed most of his bags.
But she turned. No accusations. No tears. Just looked up at him, faintly smiling:
“Want some egg?”—and held out the little pan.
That gesture cut deeper than any shout. As if time had rewound. Back to the past—a tiny student flat, one pan, one blanket, one mug between them. And this same woman, but laughing, in a cotton dressing gown, barefoot, with a fringe. Not the tired woman now, but the cheerful pony he’d once called her.
He didn’t take the pan. He took *her*. Held her. Tight. Silent. Then he began to speak. Stumbling, jumbled. How his mind had been clouded. How everything had turned grey, how he hadn’t even realised he’d lost what mattered. Maybe he cried—she couldn’t see, he was taller, she was so small. Just trembled in his arms, murmuring something like “me too.”
On the stove, the egg burned. The yolk was golden, warm. A reminder—not all was lost. Love isn’t loud. It doesn’t shout. It hides in the little things. In one frying pan. In a warm glance. In a simple: “Want some egg?”
After that, they started eating together again. Talking. Not about everything at once. Not without pain. But together.
…Sometimes it feels like everything died long ago. But then—one small “egg” changes it all. And you remember: love didn’t leave. It just got quieter. Smaller. Nearly invisible. But still alive.
