Iwoke up this morning already knowing the day was going to feel a bit off. No early train out to Basildon, no smell of mum’s roast drifting through the house, no dad quietly peeling potatoes while the rest of us took the mick out of each other. Just me, the flat in Hackney, and the kind of quiet that sits a little heavier than usual.
I still made an effort, though. Put the chicken in the oven myself, peeled a few carrots, even did proper gravy from the juices the way mum taught me years ago. It smelled right enough while it cooked, but when I sat down at the little table with a plate balanced on my lap it somehow didn’t taste the same. Maybe it was the missing chatter. Maybe it was just the fact that the chair opposite stayed empty the whole time. I ate most of it, then covered the rest and stuck it in the fridge, already knowing I’d probably reheat it tomorrow without much enthusiasm.
After that I pulled on my softest onesie, the pale pink one that feels like a proper hug, and curled up on the sofa with a chick flick I’d seen a dozen times before. The sort where everything works out in the end and the bloke turns up with flowers and a speech that makes your chest go warm. I watched it all the way through, even the credits, and somewhere around the halfway mark that familiar little ache started creeping in. Not dramatic, just a quiet, steady kind of lonely that makes the flat feel bigger than it is. The kind that makes you notice how the clock ticks a bit louder when there’s no one else breathing in the same room.
I let myself feel it for a while. Sat there with my knees tucked up, phone face-down so I wouldn’t start scrolling through old photos of family Sundays, and just stared at the screen without really seeing it. There’s something about missing that roast that always catches me off guard. It’s only every other week, and I know mum understands when work or life gets in the way, but the absence still sits in my chest like a soft weight. I thought about the way she always pushes an extra Yorkshire onto my plate, the way my brothers argue over the last roast potato, the easy silence that settles after the plates are cleared. All of it felt a long way away today.
Still, even in the middle of that little dip I couldn’t help drifting into the usual daydream. The one where there’s someone else on the sofa with me. Tall, dark hair, the kind of quiet smile that makes everything feel steadier. He’d have helped with the gravy without being asked, then pulled me in close once the film started, one arm round my shoulders and the other reaching down now and then to rub my feet without making a fuss about it. We’d talk about nothing important during the quiet bits, or maybe not talk at all, just sit there feeling complete. He’d be the sort who understands why those Basildon Sundays matter, who’d come along sometimes and laugh at dad’s jokes and still look at me like I was the best part of the day. The kind of man who could keep me in check when I need it and still leave room for all the soft, silly affection I secretly crave.
I stayed on the sofa until the light outside started fading, onesie still on, the film long finished. Made a cup of tea I didn’t really want and sipped it slowly while the city carried on beyond the window. The lonely feeling didn’t vanish completely, but it softened around the edges once I let the daydream settle in properly. There’s still hope in it, steady and quiet, the same hope that keeps me going through ordinary Sundays like this one. One day the right person will turn up and every soft Sunday will feel full instead of a little hollow. Until then I’ll keep making my own roast, keep watching the films, and keep believing that the complete version is out there somewhere, waiting for the right moment to walk through the door.
