“Gone Without a Word”
“Emily! For Gods sake, whats going on?” James gripped her shoulders, pressing her against the cold brick wall. Hed been waiting outside the hospitals main entrance for over an hour.
“James, let go,” she murmured, finally meeting his eyes. Her voice was flat, detached. “We cant be together. Theres no future for us. Dont look for meIve made up my mind.”
The words hit him like a punch. This wasnt the Emily he knew. The warmth in her hazel eyes was gone, replaced by something icy and unreadable. Before he could react, she slipped past him and walked away without a backward glance.
Just a week earlier, hed been planning to propose. Hed been certain she was the onehis future, his happiness. For two years, theyd been inseparable, the perfect couple. James, a rising star in software architecture; Emily, a brilliant surgical registrar. Friends envied their bond, predicting a long, happy marriage.
Then, in an instant, it all shattered.
Days before he planned to propose, Emily vanished. Her social media profiles disappeared. Messages went unanswered. Frantic, James called her friends, then her father, only to hear vague excuses: “She needs space,” “Give her time.” A week later, desperate, he waited outside St. Thomass Hospital. And all he got were those four cruel words: *Leave me alone.* No explanation. Just silencethe kind that left him hollow.
This wasnt like her.
***
James had grown up in a modest terrace house in Manchester, the son of a literature teacher and an engineer. His childhood was filled with books, not luxuriesevenings spent solving maths puzzles or listening to *The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy* read aloud. From his father, he inherited logic; from his mother, an understanding of people. After university, he became a sought-after tech architect, believing every chaotic system could be ordered with the right algorithm. His life was meticulous: morning runs along the Thames, work in a glass-walled co-working space, evenings cycling or climbing. He collected first-edition sci-fi novels and brewed single-origin coffee in his minimalist loftexposed brick, a high-end projector, stacks of books everywhere.
Then Emily came along, upending his structured world. Theyd met at the hospital when his mate was under her care.
Shed been raised strictly. Her father, a retired army colonel turned civil servant, drilled discipline into her. At fifteen, she lost her mothercancer. From her, Emily inherited a love of Chopin and an eye for art. Medicine was her rebellion against death itself. In the operating theatre, she was unshakable; afterward, shed retreat to her fathers crumbling Sussex cottage, playing piano for hours to unwind.
Their first date lasted an entire dayan exhibition on AI, then a jazz club where she schooled him on its history. They debated Hitchcock vs. Kubrick, shared a love of black-and-white films. He took her to lectures on quantum computing; she dragged him to anatomy labs, grinning as his stomach turned at the cadavers. Sundays meant his grandmothers pancake recipe and her Colombian coffee blend, sipped in silence as London woke outside his loft window.
That was the morning he knew. Hed ordered the ringplatinum, with an emerald to match her eyes. Then, the day before he was to collect it, his perfect world collapsed.
***
Emily hadnt seen it coming either.
After a gruelling surgery, two men in plain clothes intercepted her. “Dr. Hart, we need you to answer some questions.” Her father was under investigationfraud allegations. The investigator zeroed in on her relationship with James: “A man like him? Clean reputation, high profile. Any ties to your family, and well bury him. Ill ruin his career. Understand?”
Her choice was instant. To protect him, she had to disappear. No goodbyes. No loose ends. When James confronted her, she spoke like she would to a grieving familycold, clinical, leaving no room for hope.
***
Two years passed before James could breathe again. He travelled, dated half-heartedly, pretended he didnt still think of her. Then, at a tech conference, his phone buzzed:
*James, its Emily. Ive no right to reach out. But if youve a moment, may I call?*
He stepped into the hotels quiet conservatory, dialling with shaky hands. She told him everythingthe threats, her fear, the awful calculus of leaving to save him. Her voice, once so controlled, cracked with tears.
“You shouldve trusted me!” he snapped. “We couldve fought it together!”
“I couldnt risk you,” she whispered. “Your future mattered more than us.”
They met at their old café, talking for hourswork, medicine, books. The unsaid things hung between them. At the end, he slid her a small package: a rare *War of the Worlds* edition shed once hunted for her father.
“Thank you,” she managed, clutching it.
He studied herno anger left, just a tangled mix of understanding and hurt. “Hows your dad?”
“Cleared. Retired now.”
A pause. Then, tentative: “Fancy coffee sometime?”
She nodded, throat too tight to speak.
They parted ways, but this time, both glanced back. Their story wasnt over. It had just pausedfor two long years. Now, maybe, they could write a new chapter.
