That Night I Couldn’t Feel My Hands
by Storyora
It was one of those nights where your breath feels like smoke and the air tastes like pennies. Cold, not dramatic cold, but the kind that just sort of seeps in quietly and stays there, in your sleeves, in your spine, like it’s got nowhere else to be.
I didn’t plan to be out that late. Nobody really does. It started with “just a walk to clear my head,” which is a lie we tell ourselves when we don’t want to admit we have nowhere else to go. I was walking, no destination, hands jammed deep into my coat like that would magically reverse the temperature. It didn’t.
Here’s the thing: I wasn’t okay. Not in the dramatic, cry-on-a-bridge way. Just... numb. Like everything had gone grey and flat, like toast left too long. I’d lost my job the week before. Not fired exactly, just quietly replaced by something faster and cheaper—funny how that mirrors dating now too, huh?
Anyway. I ended up outside a 24-hour diner near Harrow Road. Not the good kind. Flickering light, smell of old grease, chairs that squeak like they’re confessing something. But it was warm. And I needed warm more than pride right then.
Table for One
The waitress looked tired. Maybe 60. Wrote my order down like it hurt. Just a coffee. Black. No questions. She nodded. Walked off. The place was empty except for a guy in the back booth, reading something. I noticed he had no jacket. Just a hoodie, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a while. You learn to spot these things.
I drank the coffee. It wasn’t good, but it was hot and that mattered more. I sat. Breathed. Thought about texting someone. Didn’t.
Then the guy from the booth stood up. Walked over. I looked up. Braced for something weird. He just said: "You look like you're thinking too loud. Mind if I sit?"
I could’ve said no. Should’ve maybe. But I didn’t. I nodded. And that’s how I met David.
Not a Therapist
David talked like someone who used to be something. A teacher maybe. Or a musician. You could hear it in his voice—soft, but sure. He didn’t ask anything at first. Just talked. About music. About how people don’t really listen anymore, just stream. About how winter in London is the loneliest season, even though people are packed in like sardines.
Somehow, without me noticing, I started talking too. About the job. The silence at home. About how I pretend to be okay so well that even I started believing it. And then—I said something I didn’t plan to say.
"Sometimes I think I disappeared a while ago and no one noticed. Not even me."
He didn’t flinch. Just nodded. Sipped his water. "Same. But disappearing isn’t the same as being gone. That’s the good news."
Real Talk
We sat there for maybe two hours. Could’ve been ten. Or one. Time does weird things when someone actually listens. The waitress came over once, topped up the coffee, didn’t say anything. God bless her.
David never asked for anything. Didn’t give me advice. Just held space. That sounds like therapy-speak but it’s the only way I can say it. He made space for me to be real without performing. That almost never happens. Not even with friends. Not even with family sometimes.
He left before me. Said he needed to catch the 4:30 bus, which I’m not sure even exists. Before leaving, he scribbled something on a napkin. Slid it across the table.
“You don’t owe anyone your silence. Speak when you’re ready. And if you forget how, come back here. I’ll probably be around.”
He smiled. Left.
It Wasn’t Just a Cold Night
I still have the napkin. And yeah, I’ve been back to that diner a few times. Haven’t seen him since. Maybe I never will. Maybe he was never real—some spirit of Harrow Road, sent by the gods of caffeine and loneliness. Who knows.
But I spoke that night. I showed up in my own life, just for a bit. That was the first step. It counts.
If you’ve ever felt that kind of nothing—like static where your soul should be—you’re not alone. Not really. And even if you are, there’s always a diner somewhere, and maybe a David. Or maybe you’ll be someone’s David.
Resources like Samaritans or Mental Health Foundation exist for a reason. No shame. No fear.
And if you need warmth tonight—get the coffee. Even if it’s bad. It’s a start.
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