**Holding On Till Friday**
Wednesday morning, Jonathan couldn’t get out of bed for the first time in three years. Not because he was ill, not because of traffic, not because he’d forgotten to set his alarm. Something inside him had simply snapped. He sat on the edge of the mattress in an old, frayed dressing gown—one Emily had given him years ago with a smile—and stared blankly at his feet, as though the answer to why he should keep going might be hidden in those motionless toes. But he found nothing.
The clock read 8:17. His phone blinked with notifications—”meeting in 40 mins,” “project deadline,” “pay broadband bill.” Everything that had once felt orderly and purposeful now just made him sick. He turned the screen off. From the kitchen came the familiar hiss of the kettle, as if the flat, out of habit, was still pretending things were normal. But Jonathan didn’t pour the water. He stood, walked to the window, pushed it open, inhaled the crisp Manchester air, lit a cigarette—even though he’d quit nearly two years ago—and wept. Not sobbing, not gasping. Just silent tears, steady and controlled. The way someone cries when they’ve been holding everything in too long.
At 39, Jonathan worked in IT, owned a three-bed in a quiet suburb, took holidays in October, ate on schedule, hit the gym three times a week. “Successful, stable”—that’s how he’d defined himself, until everything started rotting from the inside. Slowly, silently. Colleagues felt like strangers, polite conversations felt strained, every project felt like a meaningless treadmill. Smiles were empty, meetings pointless, and every morning began with the same desperate question: “Why bother?”
Emily, his ex, had once just said:
“Sorry, Jon, you’re like a switched-off telly. I don’t know if there’s anything alive in you.”
And then she left. No fights, no drama. Just packed her things and vanished. And he didn’t stop her. Didn’t beg. Just stayed. Alone. In a flat where every object had been chosen together but now felt alien.
That same Wednesday, he pulled on jeans and a jacket, left the building, and—without thinking—drove not to the office, but to Central Park, the same one where he’d played guitar with mates as a teenager. He took the day off, blamed a migraine. Bought a coffee and sat on a bench by the pond, watching the first sparrows of spring dart across the ice. He just watched. Passers-by. Dogs. Kids. For the first time in months, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or guilty for doing nothing. He was nobody. And it wasn’t terrifying—it was freeing.
“Running away too?” a voice beside him asked.
He turned. A woman. Petite, early forties, with chestnut hair neatly braided, wearing a coat with a mended pocket. Her voice was soft as morning mist. Not demanding, not pleading—just there.
“Suppose so,” he said. “You?”
“I run when I can’t stand it anymore inside. Today’s one of those Wednesdays.”
She introduced herself—Margaret. Worked at the local library, raised a sixth-form son, long divorced. And every time things got too much, she came here. Sat. With a book. Or without.
They sat side by side for nearly an hour, exchanging barely a dozen words. Then she stood:
“I’m here Wednesdays and Fridays. If you want—drop by.”
After that, Jonathan started coming. Sometimes just to feel like he existed. Sometimes to hear her read passages from Austen or Wordsworth aloud. Sometimes just to be silent. But always—to be.
Margaret wasn’t one for fuss. With her, he didn’t have to be strong. Didn’t have to pretend. Didn’t need a reason. Being near her was like a house with open windows—somewhere you could just be.
A few weeks later, he said:
“I think I can feel something breathing in my chest again.”
“Good,” she smiled. “That’s not the end. It’s a new turn.”
Six months passed. His job stayed the same. Jonathan didn’t turn into some suddenly happy superhero. But he started waking up—not with dread, but curiosity. What would today bring?
He noticed things in colleagues he’d ignored before—their exhaustion, their fears. He called his dad and talked longer than three minutes. Dusted off his old guitar from the loft. Even wrote to Emily—not to ask for anything, just to say thanks. And he realised—the hollowness inside was gone.
Then came Friday. He went to Margaret’s with an apple pie in a box. Just because he knew she’d like it. But when she opened the door, her face was pale, tear-streaked, crumpling a letter in her hand. Her son had a tumour. Aggressive. Fast. Ruthless. She wasn’t crying—just standing there, gripping the doorframe like it might hold her up.
He didn’t leave. He stayed. Held her when she broke. Found specialists, slept on hospital chairs, squeezed her hand when she was too tired to breathe. He didn’t say, “It’ll be fine.” He just said:
“I’m here. We’ll get through it. Together.”
A year later, her son was recovering. Laughing again. Arguing about politics and Radiohead. Margaret wore her old coat—still with that mended pocket—and laughed with the same rasp at the end, a sound Jonathan now loved more than any other.
And him? He didn’t search for meaning in spreadsheets anymore. Didn’t count down to the weekend to escape. He just lived. Breathed in mornings. Drank coffee. And whenever the weight returned, he remembered:
Sometimes, to survive, you just have to make it to Friday.
And then the next one. And the next. Until it gets easier. Until you start living again.
