The grief hit Nicola like a wave she couldn’t see coming, pulling her under before she had a chance to catch her breath. In EastEnders, death was an all-too-familiar visitor to Albert Square, but when it came for someone close to her, the reality was sharper and more painful than she had imagined. She had spent the early hours sitting alone in her flat, staring at the cup of tea she’d made but never drank, her hands wrapped around the mug more for comfort than warmth. Every noise outside—the rumble of a bus, the chatter of neighbours—felt out of place, like the world had rudely decided to carry on without pausing to acknowledge her loss. Nicola had never been the type to ask for help; she preferred to keep her struggles private, putting on a brave face even when she was falling apart inside. But grief has a way of breaking down walls, and on this day, those walls had all but crumbled. She didn’t notice the knock at her door until it came again, firmer this time. When she opened it, she was startled to see someone she hardly knew standing there—a resident she’d exchanged polite nods with at the market, but little more. His expression was gentle, almost hesitant, as though he was unsure if he had the right to intrude. “I heard,” he said simply, holding out a small plate covered in foil. “Thought you might not feel like cooking.” It was such a small gesture, but it hit Nicola harder than she expected. She invited him in without thinking, grateful for the company even though she wasn’t ready to talk. They sat together in her living room, the silence between them not awkward but oddly comforting. Over the next hour, he shared small stories—nothing about her loss directly, but light moments from his own life that somehow eased the heaviness pressing on her chest. Nicola realised she had underestimated him, this quiet neighbour with a knack for saying just enough without saying too much. In a place like Albert Square, where drama and conflict were often louder than compassion, his quiet presence felt like a rare gift. By the time he left, Nicola wasn’t “better”—grief doesn’t work like that—but she felt a little less alone. That night, as she lay in bed, she thought about how easily she could have shut the door, choosing solitude over connection. Instead, she had let someone in, and in doing so, she had taken the first small step toward healing. The days ahead would still be hard, but now she knew she didn’t have to face them entirely on her own. And in EastEnders, that kind of unexpected support could change everything.