The View from the Sixth Floor

It began with the hum again. That relentless buzz low in the city’s chest. The kind only the lonely ever really hear.

Kate stood at her window in stockinged feet, mug cooling rapidly in her hand. The sixth floor wasn't high enough to float above it all, but just far enough to feel untouchable. Below, the city curled and stretched, spitting light into the sky. The masses moved in and out of liquor-lit streets. Ubers blinked through the crush. Somewhere, laughter peaked too sharp, too distant to mean anything.

Another Saturday night, and the city hummed with life — too much of it.

She’d once written that down on a Post-it, maybe for a poem. Faces blur in the neon light she’d scribbled near it, as if she could bottle the feeling of being surrounded and unseen. Back when she still had the energy to name things.

She sipped her lukewarm tea. It tasted faintly of metal.

Behind her, the flat held its breath. A suitcase had gathered dust in the corner—still zipped tight from a trip cancelled months ago. Her boyfriend, Elliot, had left six months back. Maybe seven. It had stopped hurting when she spoke of him aloud—when she even bothered to speak of him at all. That seemed more worrying. More terminal.

The messages had dried up eventually, left read but unanswered. All of it: the shared garlic crusher, the Sunday films, the fights that mimed life. Gone. And now—this murky in-between. She didn’t tell her mother. She didn’t tell anyone.

She brushed a fingertip over the condensation on the windowpane, drawing an arc, then another. The reflection looked back at her through the fog: eyes dulled, hair slack from too much effort. She’d curled it earlier, lipstick too—but didn’t go out. The thought of being wrapped in conversation she’d have to fake her way through, politely laughing at jokes she never understood, just made her more tired than staying home.

So she’d stayed. Performed no role. Just sat — lost in the sea she was drifting inside.

She let herself sink into the sofa's familiar sag. The television played with no sound; the news mouthed wars and darkness with careful teeth. Somewhere between channels, she recognised the shape her life had taken—muted, watchful, background.

She scrolled. The usual—Instagram alight with cheer: someone's baby, someone's Prosecco, another friend finding her way out of the city. On Twitter, everyone was furious or brilliant. Or both.

Michelle had tagged her: a pub bathroom mirror photo, three girls puckering at the lens with cocktails in hand. “Corporate girlies x.” The caption felt like it had claws. Kate clicked away fast.

Is anyone ever choosing me when I’m not already there?

She wasn't sure.

Her mind whispered the words she hadn't planned. The loneliest place is a room full of cheer. She hadn't said them aloud, but they lingered anyway.

From the kitchen came the slow, sharp drip of a leaky tap. She turned her face from it, from everything. Even her joints were tired lately. The ache came and went — subtle, persistent — like her grief.

On a whim, she turned on the old DAB radio. A violin wound into the room like a thread pulling her somewhere. The music felt like a waltz spun out of sadness, every note aching with weight. She imagined a stage where someone played only for the broken, just for people like her.

The melody curled through her chest. A quiet, private despair.

She thought of Elliot again. Of laughter echoed too long. She thought of her own voice lately — filtered, tight, too careful. Sometimes it wasn’t what she said, but what she didn’t. A silent scream, trapped somewhere behind her ribs.

She closed her eyes. Let the music drift all the way in.

They always used to say she was composed. Together. But togetherness was just choreography. A smile, a nod. Playing the part she’d been given. Inside, though—something hollow. Something fraudulent. Living a waking dream, filled with fear.

There used to be joy.

Her father’s thumb had once brushed her cheek after school—hands rough, smelling of oil and citrus sweets. The joy in that still hurt. Gone too young. There had been Brighton, kart racing, wind-smacked cheeks over vinegar chips. Laughter that made no sense but needed none.

Now, it was all uphill. Getting dressed. Replying. Picking pasta. Choosing stillness or noise.

And when she didn’t cry? That scared her more than when she did.

She stood again. Ran a hand over her face.

Then—movement. Subtle. There, just past the reflection—on the balcony.

A fox.

Its russet coat caught strands of light. It stood perfectly still, as if waiting, watching. Not afraid. Not in a hurry. Kate stilled, breathing shallow. The fox looked at her with a patience beyond language.

"Hello," she whispered.

No response. Just eyes. Then with a final twist of its tail, it slid away like mist. Gone.

Kate didn't realise she had moved until she was at the balcony door. The wind touched her like a friend forgetting how to hug. She stepped outside in thin socks, into the grit and cold, into the quiet.

Below her, the city pulsed. But up here, the air was clearer. Still.

She closed her eyes again. Something unlatched within. Not gone, just... shifted. And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, she didn’t fight the breeze. She let it go through her. Over her. As if she too were weather.

No one hears the hidden tears, she thought.

But maybe, maybe someone could.

Back inside, her phone buzzed.

Michelle:
"You okay hun? Didn't see you tonight. Was worried x"

Three words. Not many. Not answers. But something.

Her thumb hovered.

Then moved.

"Rough day. Thanks for checking."

Send.

She put the kettle on again. Closed the window, but not all the way.

Somewhere, a fox threaded the city’s darkness. Somewhere, her name had been spoken out loud.

And the flat—small, quiet—finally exhaled.

Alone... but only just.

 The inspiration for this story came from my song, "Alone in the Swarm" which can be heard below