Being with you is dreadfully boring, he says, his voice flat as the quiet of a library. Honestly, Ive fallen for someone elseEmily.
Emily stares at James, her heart snapping like an overstretched string. Three years togetherthree years of hopes, plans, endless talks about the futurehave just been shattered by two short sentences.
Boring? Emily repeats, trying to grasp the word. Its never been boring for you, and now it suddenly is?
It doesnt matter, Emily, James replies without even looking up, folding his shirt into his work bag. It just happened. These things happen. Were not the first, we wont be the last.
Emily wants to scream, to argue, but her throat tightens. She watches in silence as the man she loves methodically erases the traces of their shared life.
After he leaves, the flat feels cavernous and empty. The walls press in, the air seems thick. Emily collapses onto the sofa and weeps, but the tears bring no relief. At night she wakes reaching for the empty side of the bed; by day she drifts through work without really engaging.
The neighbours next door carry on with their own liveslaughing, shouting, the TV blaring. Their voices seep through the thin walls, a reminder that somewhere a normal life goes on, full and real. All Emily has left are 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 dreams of a place that will accept her just as she istired, bewildered, yearning for basic human warmth.
A year after the breakup, she meets him.
It happens at the coffee shop opposite her office. Emily darts in for a midday latte. At a window table sits a man, his face sallow from fatigue, his eyes dim. Their gazes meet for a brief instant, and Emily sees something familiar in himthe same emptiness that has settled inside her.
That day she meets Oliver. Hes thirtyeight, freshly divorced, childfree. He lives in a twobed flat that looks like its owner gave up long ago: dusty bookshelves, a sagging sofa, grimestained windows. He isnt angry; he looks more squeezed, like a lemon.
Divorced three years ago, Oliver says on their third date, stirring his coffee mechanically. Since then Ive been surviving. Workhome, homework. You get used to being alone. It even gets comfortableno one nagging, no expectations, no waiting.
Emily listens and recognises her own pain, only older, coated with a crust of indifference.
Gradually she steps into his world, first cautiously, then deeper. At first they simply meet upgoing to the cinema, strolling through the park, sitting in cafés. Oliver is a man of few words, which Emily now finds pleasant after the chatter of her ex. His silence has its own charm; theres no need to fill pauses with empty chatter.
Your flat feels empty, Emily remarks one day, looking around his place.
Got used to it, Oliver shrugs. Why change anything?
But Emily sees something else: a man who has simply forgotten how to care for himself, who lives rather than truly exists.
Six months later Emily moves in with Oliver. She brings only the essentials at first, but over time the flat transforms. She tidies up, rearranges furniture to let more light in, replaces the threadbare duvet with fresh linens, swaps cracked mugs and plates for new ones. She brings in potted flowers that grow and brighten the room, hangs light curtains that let sunshine filter through. The flat fills with the aromas of homecooked meals and fresh air. The house comes alive, warms up.
Why are you doing all this? Oliver asks one evening, watching Emily hang newlywashed curtains.
I want you to enjoy coming home, she replies simply, and he says nothing.
Unaware of how his life is shifting, Oliver grows accustomed to her care. He likes returning to a tidy flat that smells of fresh food, where a warm dinner always waits and the bed is soft and clean. Emily creates a cocoon of comfort around him, a place where he can relax and think of nothing else.
For two years she looks after Olivercooking his favourite dishes, noting whether he prefers a touch more sweetness or a hint of spice, tending to every small detail from the morning coffee scent to the soft throw on the sofa. She surrounds him with love without asking for anything in return.
She postpones any talk of the future, afraid to disturb the fragile balance. Each time she feels the urge to ask Whats next? she holds back, thinking its too early, that he should simply come to realise how good they are together.
Eventually she does ask. Oliver sits at the kitchen table, sipping tea from a brandnew cup she bought the previous week. Outside, rain drizzles, but the flat feels warm and cosy.
Oliver, when are we getting married?
He looks up, shakes his head.
Marry? Im not going to do that. Im not that foolish.
Emily freezes, the kitchen suddenly feeling foreign and cold. The cups, the curtains, the flowers on the windowsillall seem like props on a stage she no longer belongs to. All the warmth she poured in, all her hopes, crumble in an instant.
But why then? she stammers, searching for words. Why did I do all this? Two years, Oliver! Two years I wrapped you in love and care. I thought we were building a future together!
Oliver places his cup down.
I never asked for that. You started it yourself. I was fine as I was.
Emily cant believe it. The man she has cared for, the man she turned a sterile flat into a home, simply doesnt understandor refuses to understand.
Fine? her voice is pressed. It was fine for you to live in dust and grime? To eat readymeals? To sleep on threadbare sheets?
Yeah, not ideal, but you can live like that, Oliver replies as if commenting on the weather. Emily, I do appreciate everything you do, truly. But I never promised marriage. After the divorce I swore off it. A stamped certificate doesnt change anything.
It does, Emily whispers. To me 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 belongings. Oliver watches without protest, without begging her to stay.
You understand you have nowhere to go? he finally says. Its late, its raining outside.
Ill figure something out, she replies shortly, zipping her suitcase.
She passes him, heads for the front door, stops in the hallway, looks around the flat one last time. Theres no longer a place for her love here.
The door closes softly behind her. She walks down the street, rain soaking her coat, her chest hollow. One thought loops repeatedly: I only wanted him to be happy
Emily checks into a modest hotel, sits on the edge of the bed and finally lets herself crylong, exhausting sobs until she is spent.
When the ache eases, she realises her mistake wasnt loving him; it was giving everything without ever receiving a step toward her own needs. She built a family where her effort was taken for granted, warming someone who never asked for it. She wanted to be needed, but became a convenient option, pouring her soul into a man who treated it like a free addon to his steady routine.
Now Emily knows love cant be bought with care. You cant win genuine affection through cleaning, cooking, or endless attentiveness.
If another man appears in her life, she will no longer rush to change his pillows or polish his crockery. She wont race to create a cosy home in someone elses space. Shell watch his actions, his intentions, see whether he moves toward her as she does. If he does, theyll build a home together where no one has to earn a place beside the other.
