A Life in Words
“Fetch the doctor. He’s in a bad way,” the foreman’s voice cut sharp, like a foghorn in the mist.
“It’s just nerves. Happens to everyone,” his mate dismissed him with a wave.
“Nerves? He’s a driver! Tomorrow he’s taking people. What if he cracks? If he ploughs into a lamppost?”
Edward sat on the cold floor in the corner of the dispatch office at the small bus station on the outskirts of a sleepy Lancashire town. A crumpled plastic cup trembled in his hands, the thin material creaking under his grip, keeping time with his heartbeat. Droplets shivered their way down, spattering onto the dusty floor. The argument reached him in fragments, like echoes from a distant tunnel. He stared at a stain on the ground—was it a map, a bird, or someone’s face? It didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.
An hour ago, he’d brought the bus back from a school trip, driving flawlessly, as always. Edward was dependable as an old engine: no breakdowns, no days off, no complaints. He was praised, relied upon, and overlooked—part of the station, like a peeling bench or the “Departures” sign. He never faltered. Until he shattered inside, like glass under a hammer’s blow.
He’d gone home and seen her—his wife. And beside her, a stranger. In their flat. On their sofa. With their mugs on the table. They didn’t flinch, didn’t explain, didn’t rush to soften the blow. Just fell silent, staring at him like he was a passerby who’d wandered in. As if waiting for him to understand without words. Without lies. Without pretence.
He did. The pain rose in his throat, a roar in his temples, ice spreading through his chest. He turned and left. Walked to the station, wrenched open his locker, tore off his jacket, and collapsed onto the floor. No shouting, no tears. Just silence, thick as betrayal—not the kind that screams, but the kind that follows you, quiet and relentless.
“Edward, what’s wrong?” The dispatcher eyed him with concern. “Tired?”
He nodded. Nodding was easier than speaking.
They called a doctor. He refused. Just sat there, not because he knew what to do next, but because he didn’t know where to run. Eventually, he wandered into the park. Walked without aim, without direction. Watched cracks in the pavement, fallen leaves, strangers, his own scuffed shoes. Walked until dark, until the clock struck midnight. His phone stayed silent. He didn’t go home. Home wasn’t walls. Home was where someone waited.
He spent the night at the station, curled on a hard bench under his jacket. No one shooed him away. The dispatcher left a thermos of tea and a toffee. He warmed his hands on the metal, and for the first time in years, let himself stop. Just breathe. Just be.
On the third day, he left. Not home, not to his route, but to the next town over. Bought a ticket for the first bus he saw. Watched forests, fences, and rooftops blur past the window. No plan, no purpose. Just moving, as if the road knew where to take him. He walked into a barber’s and said, “Cut it short. So no one recognises me.” Bought vitamins at the chemist—why, he couldn’t say. Found himself in a library, pulling a book from the shelf for the first time in decades. Ran his fingers along the spines, as if searching not for a story, but for a voice.
At the station, he sat beside an old man with a battered rucksack. The fellow flipped through a newspaper, a worn suitcase at his feet, as frayed as his coat.
“Mind if I join you?” Edward asked softly.
“Why not?” The old man smirked without looking up.
They sat in silence for twenty minutes. Edward listened to the creak of ticket booths, the banter of drivers, the sting of hot tea on his fingers. Wind chased dust along the platform; somewhere, pastries steamed—someone ate around the corner. The quiet was alive, not empty. The space breathed between them. Then they talked. Of rain. Of roads. Of how fast children grow and how slowly emptiness fills a house. The old man said he was visiting his brother. That he’d survived an illness. That his wife was gone, and now the house hummed with the telly, just to drown out the silence. His son called once a month—punctual, but cold. No “how are you,” just “all fine,” “working.” Like a duty. Like a report.
Edward listened. Nodded. Really, for the first time. Then he spoke. Not grandly. Of work. Of home. Of how everything inside him had burned out, how he’d tired of being “dependable.” How he just wanted someone to listen. Not pity, not advise. Just be there. Nod. Like now.
“We don’t need fixing,” the old man said, eyes on the platform. “We’ve no one to live with.”
Edward nodded. Truly. The words touched a place where the pain began to thaw, turning back to life.
From that day, he started travelling. Every weekend, a new town. Not running, not searching. Just to talk. To be silent. To listen. To pause. To share tea with strangers. Sometimes he slept in hostels, sometimes on trains. Sometimes he returned late and didn’t feel the hollow in his chest.
He didn’t quit his job. Still drove people. But differently now. Noticed who hid tears by the window, who smiled into the phone with grief in their eyes, who lingered at the exit as if fearing the step into the void. He became the one who didn’t stay quiet. Who nodded, helped with bags, joked with an old lady, asked a teen, “Got your rucksack?” Nothing grand. But with warmth. With presence.
A year later, he saw her by chance—the woman from their mugs, their sofa, their past. She walked down the high street, laughing into her phone. Saw him. Froze. No guilt in her look, just surprise, as if he were a stranger. And he understood: they were nothing to each other now. As if their story had been a dream, and they’d woken in separate worlds, separate lives.
And he—was alive.
Not saved, not healed. But heard. And hearing. And that, it turned out, was enough.
He no longer wanted to return to where people whispered to keep their secrets, where everything was tiptoes and half-truths. He chose to live out loud. To hear. To be heard. Even once. But truly.
