HOME • by Silvia Saunders

In the bath last night, he said, “Can I tell you something? Not to freak you out.”

I was lying on top of him, sloshing around, so I nodded onto his chest.

“I was thinking earlier that the idea of not living with you after all this makes me really sad.”

I did another nod and said, “I know.”

“I feel like I’m at home wherever you are.”

He said this clichéd line with so much sincerity that it was as though he was the first person to ever come out with it.

“I know.”

“I’ve never felt this close to anyone.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

We are a new couple and he moved in for convenience sake. The rules are that you can’t mix with any other household, so we became one household. We do the same thing over and over. Coffee in bed, kiss at the door, go to our jobs, beer in the bath, take it in turns to make dinner, then watch The Bachelorette until our eyes blur. On Wednesdays we order pizza, on Fridays we order a curry. On a Sunday we walk exactly 12,000 steps on the same route around Hackney, stopping at the same café for a takeaway coffee.

We’ve only ever been on one proper date, back in March. The world shut down after that and we saw each other on a computer screen every Saturday night for ten weeks, him in his shared house in South London, me in my childhood home in the midlands.

Our second date took place on the sofa we spend every evening on now. I’d only been back in London a couple of days. He showed up at my door with a bottle of champagne and we were both so nervous we just stood in my kitchen smiling at each other for the first twenty minutes.

I like having him here. I’ve never lived with a boy before and didn’t realise it would be so fun. He helps. He fixes things. He listens to all my stories and rubs my feet when I hold them up for him to inspect. He brings me things to nibble on. A wedge of parmesan, a piece of mortadella, a chocolate coin.

We daydream about all the things we’re going to do when we’re allowed to. We’ve decided on Paris, Cuba, Jamaica, Chicago. But first, Brighton, to meet his parents. And before that, the pub across the road.

I can’t wait to be waiting for you at a bar, to buy you a pint, and we’re both wearing our best clothes, he texts me from work. Might defrost your freezer when I get back.

I have been living the same day, with slight variations, for months now. Just like everybody else.


Silvia Saunders works at a London school. She has written three novels so far, none of which are available to buy on Amazon.


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Every Day Fiction