It was a dreary affair, as dull as a library, and I had already fallen for another Eleanor.
Eleanor stared at Edward in disbelief. Inside her, a taut string snapped. Three years together, three years of hopes, plans, conversations about a future. Then Edward dropped those two short sentences that shattered everything.
Dull? Eleanor repeated the word, trying to grasp its meaning. Three years werent dull for you, and now suddenly?
What does it matter, Eleanor? Edward said without even looking up, folding shirts into his bag. It just happened. These things happen. Were not the first, nor will we be the last.
Eleanor wanted to shout, to argue, but her throat tightened. She could only watch in silence as the man she loved methodically erased the traces of their shared life.
After he left, the flat seemed vast and empty. The walls pressed in, the air grew thick. Eleanor sank onto the sofa and wept, though the tears brought no relief. At night she woke to reach for the vacant side of the bed; by day she went through the motions of work without truly engaging.
The neighbours on the next floor lived their own lives laughing, swearing, the television blaring. Their voices seeped through the thin plaster, reminding Eleanor that somewhere beyond her walls a full, ordinary life continued. She was left with only memories and an empty flat.
All she craved was simple: love, a home where someone waited, a place where she could be herself without pretending to be strong. Eleanor dreamed of a place that would accept her exactly as she was weary, bewildered, longing for ordinary human warmth.
A year after the breakup she met him.
It happened in a café opposite her office. Eleanor popped in for a midday coffee. At a table by the window sat a man, his face grey with fatigue, his eyes dim. Their gazes met for a heartbeat, and Eleanor saw in him the same emptiness that had settled in her own chest.
That day she met Harold. He was thirtyeight, recently divorced, childless, living in a twobedroom flat that spoke of a landlord who had long since walked away: dusty bookshelves, a sagging sofa, grimy windows. He didnt appear angry, merely squeezed, like a lemon that had been turned inside out.
Divorced three years ago, Harold told her on their third date, mechanically stirring his coffee. Since then Ive been getting by as best I can. Workhome, homework. You get used to being alone. It even becomes comfortable no one nags, no one expects anything.
Eleanor listened and recognised her own pain, only older, crusted over with indifference.
Gradually she slipped into his world: first cautiously, then ever deeper. At first they simply met cinema outings, park walks, café stops. Harold was a man of few words, which Eleanor now welcomed after Victors endless chatter. In his silence there was a charm; she no longer had to fill pauses with empty phrases.
Your flat feels empty, Eleanor remarked one day, surveying his place.
Got used to it, Harold shrugged. Why bother changing anything?
But Eleanor saw something else: a man who had forgotten how to care for himself, who lived rather than truly existed.
Six months later she moved in with Harold. At first she brought only the essentials, but over time the flat began to transform. She tidied, rearranged furniture to let more light in, replaced the threadbare sheets, swapped cracked cups and plates, introduced fresh potted flowers to brighten the room, hung light curtains that let the sunshine filter through. The flat filled with the aromas of homecooked meals and fresh air. The house came alive and grew warm.
Why are you doing all this? Harold asked one afternoon as she hung newly laundered curtains.
I want you to enjoy coming home, she answered simply, and Harold fell silent.
Unaware of the shift, Harold grew accustomed to her care. He liked returning to a clean flat scented with food, liked finding dinner waiting on the table, liked the fresh, soft bed. Eleanor wove a cocoon of comfort around him, a place where he could relax and think of nothing else.
For two years she tended to Harold, cooking his favourite dishes, noting whether he liked things sweeter or spicier, creating coziness in every detail from the scent of morning coffee to the soft throw on the sofa. She surrounded him with love, asking nothing in return.
She postponed any talk of the future for two years, fearing to disturb the fragile balance. Each time she wanted to ask, Whats next? she held herself back. It was still early, she told herself. Let him settle, let him see how good it could be together.
At last she asked. Harold sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea from a new mug shed bought the previous week. Outside rain pattered, but inside the flat was warm and snug.
Harold, when are we getting married?
Harold lifted his eyes from the mug and shook his head.
Marriage? Im not planning on getting married again. Im not that foolish.
Eleanor froze, shocked. The kitchen suddenly seemed foreign, cold. All those mugs, curtains, flowers on the windowsill they all felt like props on a stage she no longer recognised. Everything shed done, all the warmth, every hope, crumbled in an instant.
But why then she stammered, searching for words. Why did I do all this? Two years, Harold! Two years Ive wrapped you in love and care. I thought we were building a future together!
Harold set the mug down.
I never asked for that. You started it yourself. I was fine as I was.
Eleanor stared, unable to believe. The man she had laboured for, the man whose flat she had turned from a shell into a home, simply didnt understand or perhaps didnt want to understand.
Fine? Was it fine for you to live in dust and grime? To eat readymade meals? To sleep on threadbare sheets?
Yeah, not ideal, but you can live in it, Harold replied as if discussing the weather. Eleanor, I do appreciate everything you do, truly. But I never promised you marriage. After the divorce I swore off it. A stamp in a passport doesnt change anything.
It does, Eleanor whispered. To me it means were a family, that we have a future, that Im not just a convenient woman.
Harold tried to protest, Youve got it all wrong.
But Eleanor was already up from the table. She walked silently to the bedroom, began gathering her belongings. Harold watched without saying a word, making no pleas for her to stay.
You understand theres nowhere for you to go? he finally said. Its late, its raining out.
Ill figure something out, she replied briefly, fastening her suitcase.
She passed him, headed for the front door, paused in the hallway, glanced at the flat one last time. There was no longer a place for her love there.
The door closed softly behind her. She walked the streets for a long while, the rain falling, her chest hollow, a single thought looping: I only wanted him to be happy
She checked into a modest guesthouse, sat on the edge of the bed and finally allowed herself to weep, crying until exhaustion drained her.
When the ache subsided, she realised her mistake wasnt loving at all. It was giving everything without waiting for a step toward her. She had built a family where her efforts were taken for granted, offering warmth to a man who never asked for it. She had wanted to be needed, yet became merely convenient. She poured her soul into a person who treated it as an unpaid extra in his orderly life.
Now Eleanor knew: love cannot be bought with care. You cannot win affection through cleaning, cooking, and constant attention.
And should another man ever appear in her life, she will no longer rush to change his cushions or replace his dishes. She will watch his actions, his intentions, whether he walks toward her as she does toward him. If he does, they will together create a home where no one has to earn the right to stand beside the other.
