Its boring with you. Like a quiet library. Ive actually fallen for someone else, Emily.
Emily stares at Victor, surprise cracking her throat. Inside, a taut string snaps. Three years togetherthree years of hopes, plans, talks about a future. Then Victor drops those two short sentences that shatter everything.
Boring? Emily repeats the word, trying to grasp its meaning. It wasnt boring for three years, and now suddenly
What does it matter, Emily? Victor doesnt even look up, folding shirts into his bag. It just happened. These things happen. Were not the first, we wont be the last.
Emily wants to shout, to argue, but her throat tightens. She can only watch silently as the man she loves methodically erases the traces of their shared life.
After he leaves, the rented flat feels huge and empty. The walls press in, the air seems thick. Emily collapses onto the sofa and cries, but the tears bring no relief. She wakes at night reaching for the cold side of the bed, and during the day she goes through work mechanically, never really engaging.
The neighbours next door live their own liveslaughing, swearing, the television blaring. Their voices seep through the thin walls, reminding Emily that somewhere theres a full, real life. She is left with only memories and an empty flat.
All she craves now is simple: love, a home where someone waits, a place where she can be herself without pretending to be strong. She longs for a spot that will accept her tired, bewildered self, thirsty for ordinary human warmth.
A year after the breakup she meets him.
It happens in the café across from her office. Emily darts in for a midday coffee. At a window seat sits a man, his face gray with fatigue, his eyes dim. Their gazes meet for a breath, and Emily sees the same emptiness she feels reflected in him.
That day she meets Oliver. Hes thirtyeight, freshly divorced, no children. He lives in a twobedroom flat that looks as if the landlord gave up long ago: dusty bookshelves, a sagging sofa, grimy windows. He doesnt seem angryjust squeezed, like a lemon.
I got divorced three years ago, Oliver says on their third date, stirring his coffee mechanically. Since then Ive been living as I can. Workhome, homework. You get used to being alone. It even gets comfortableno one nagging, nothing demanding, no expectations.
Emily listens and recognises her own pain, only older, coated with a layer of indifference.
Gradually Emily steps into his world: first cautiously, then deeper. At first they just meet for movies, strolls in the park, coffee in cafés. Oliver is a man of few words, which Emily now finds soothing after chatty Victor. His silence has its own charmno need to fill pauses with empty chatter.
Your flat feels empty, Emily remarks one day, looking around his place.
Im used to it, Oliver shrugs. Why change anything?
But Emily sees something else: a person who has forgotten how to care for himself, how to live rather than merely exist.
Six months later Emily moves in with Oliver. She brings only the essentials at first. Over time the flat transforms. She clears the clutter, rearranges furniture to let more light in, replaces the threadbare bedding, swaps cracked cups and plates, brings in potted flowers to brighten the windows, hangs light curtains that let sunshine filter through. The place fills with the scent of homecooked meals and fresh air. The flat comes alive, warm and welcoming.
Why are you doing all this? Oliver asks one afternoon, watching Emily hang freshly laundered curtains.
I want you to enjoy coming home, she replies simply, and Oliver stays silent.
Unaware of how much hes relying on her, Oliver grows accustomed to her care. He likes returning to a clean flat that smells of fresh food, likes finding a readymade dinner on the table and a soft, fresh bed. Emily creates a cosy cocoon around him, a space where he can relax and think of nothing else.
For two years Emily tends to Olivercooking his favourite dishes, noting whether he likes things sweeter or spicier, tending to every tiny detail, from the aroma of morning coffee to the soft blanket on the sofa. She surrounds him with love, asking for nothing in return.
She postpones any talk about the future, afraid to disturb their fragile balance. Each time she feels the urge to ask, Whats next? she holds back, thinking its too early. Let him get used to it, she tells herself.
One rainy afternoon she finally asks. Oliver sits at the kitchen table, sipping tea from a new mug she bought the week before. The rain patters outside, but the flat is warm and snug.
Oliver, when are we getting married?
Oliver looks up from his mug, shakes his head.
Marriage? Im not planning on ever tying the knot again. Im not that foolish.
Emily freezes, the kitchen turning cold and foreign. The mugs, the curtains, the flowers on the sillall feel like props on a stage she no longer belongs to. All the warmth she built, all the hope, crumble in an instant.
But why did I she stammers, searching for words. Why did I do all this? Two years, Oliver! Two years Ive wrapped you in love and care. I thought we were building a future together!
Oliver sets his mug down.
I never asked for this. You started it yourself. I was fine as I was.
Emily looks at him, disbelief flooding her. The man she has devoted herself to, turned his drab flat into a home, simply doesnt understandor wont understand.
Fine? her voice is strangled. Was it fine for you to live in dust and grime? To eat readymade meals? To sleep on threadbare sheets?
It wasnt perfect, but you manage, Oliver says as if commenting on the weather. Emily, I appreciate everything you do, truly. But I never promised marriage. After the divorce I swore off it. A stamp in a passport doesnt change anything.
It does, Emily whispers. To me it changes everything. It means were a family, that we have a future, that Im not just a convenient woman.
Oliver tries to argue, Youve got it all wrong, but Emily is already up from the table. She walks silently to the bedroom, begins packing her things. Oliver watches, saying nothing, not trying to stop her, not asking her to stay.
You know you have nowhere to go, right? he finally says. Its late, its raining outside.
Ill figure something out, she replies curtly, zipping her suitcase.
She passes him, heads for the door, pauses in the hallway, looks around the flat one last time. There is no longer a place for her love here.
The door closes softly behind her. She walks the streets for a long time, rain soaking the pavement, a hollow feeling in her chest. One thought loops endlessly: I only wanted him to be happy
Emily checks into a modest hotel, sits on the edge of the bed and finally allows herself to cry. She sobs until shes exhausted, until her strength runs out.
After the pain eases, she realises her mistake wasnt loving him. It was giving everything without receiving a step forward. She built a family where her efforts werent valued, gifting warmth to someone who never asked for it, planning a future with a man who lives only in the present. She wanted to be needed, and became merely convenient. She poured her soul into a person who treated it as a freestanding option in his orderly life.
Now Emily knows love isnt bought with care. You cant earn reciprocity through cleaning, cooking, and tidying.
And the day another man enters her life, she wont rush to change his cushions or polish his dishes. She wont race to create cosy corners in a foreign home. She will watch his actions, his intentions, whether he meets her halfway. If he does, they will build a home together where no one has to earn a place beside the other.
