28October2025
Dear Diary,
It feels as dull as sitting in a quiet library when Im with Victor. In fact, Ive fallen for someone elseEleanor Whitaker.
Eleanor looked at me, Victor, in stunned silence. It was as if a taut string inside me snapped. Three years together, three years of hopes, plans, endless talks about a future. Then I dropped those two short sentences that shattered everything.
Bored? Eleanor echoed, trying to grasp the word. Three years never bored you, and now youre suddenly?
It doesnt matter, Eleanor, I said without even looking up, still folding my shirts into the bag. It just happened. It happens. Were not the first, nor the last.
She wanted to shout, to protest, but her throat tightened; she could only stare silently as the man I loved methodically packed away the remnants of our life together.
After I left, the flat seemed enormous and empty to her. The walls pressed in, the air felt viscous. She sank onto the sofa and wept, but the tears brought no relief. At night she woke reaching for the cold side of the bed; by day she went through work mechanically, never really engaging.
The neighbours next door lived their own liveslaughing, swearing, the TV blaring. Their voices slipped through the thin walls, reminding Eleanor that somewhere there was a full, real life. All she had left were memories and an empty flat.
What she craved most was simple: love, a home where someone waited, a place to be herself without pretending to be strong. She dreamed of a place that would accept her, tired, bewildered, yearning for ordinary human warmth.
A year after the breakup she met him.
It happened at the café opposite her office. She darted in for a lunchtime coffee. At a window table sat a man with a grey, tired face and a dimmed gaze. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and she saw something familiar there the same emptiness that had settled in her.
That day she met Tom Bennett. Thirtyeight, freshly divorced, no children. He lived in a twobedroom flat that looked as if the landlord had abandoned it long ago: dusty bookshelves, a sagging sofa, grimy windows. He wasnt nasty, just drained, like a squeezed lemon.
Divorced three years ago, Tom told her on their third date, absentmindedly stirring his coffee. Since then Ive been doing what I have to. Workhome, homework. You get used to being alone. It even gets comfortableno one nags, nothing demands, nothing expects.
Eleanor listened and recognized her own pain, now crusted over with indifference.
Slowly she slipped into his worldfirst cautiously, then deeper. At first they simply met up: cinema, park walks, cafés. Tom was sparing with words, but that suited Eleanor after the chatter of Victor. There was a charm in his silenceno need to fill gaps with empty chatter.
One thing, your flat feels empty, she remarked one day, looking around his place.
Got used to it, Tom shrugged. Why change what works?
But Eleanor saw something else: a man who had forgotten how to care for himself, how to truly live rather than merely exist.
Six months later she moved in with Tom. At first she brought only the essentials. Gradually the flat transformed. She rearranged furniture to let in more light, bought fresh bedding to replace the threadbare set, swapped cracked mugs and plates, placed potted plants on the windowsill, hung light curtains that let the sun stream in. The flat filled with the scent of homecooked meals and fresh air. The place warmed up, became alive.
Why are you doing all this? Tom asked once, watching Eleanor hang the freshly washed curtains.
I want you to enjoy coming home, she replied simply, and he fell silent.
Unaware of how his routine was shifting, Tom grew to rely on her care. He liked returning to a tidy flat that smelled of fresh food, to a table where dinner always waited, to a bed that felt soft and clean. Eleanor wove a cocoon of comfort around him, a space where he could relax and think of nothing else.
For two years she tended to Tomcooking his favourite dishes, noting whether he liked them sweeter or spicier, adding little touches from the aroma of morning coffee to a soft throw on the sofa. She surrounded him with love, asking nothing in return.
She postponed any talk of the future, fearing to upset the fragile balance. Every time the question Whats next? bubbled up, she held herself back, thinking it was still early. Let him get used to it, she told herself.
Eventually she asked. Tom was in the kitchen, sipping tea from a new mug shed bought the week before. Rain pattered against the windows, but the flat felt warm and cosy.
Tom, when are we getting married?
He lifted his eyes from the mug, shook his head.
Marriage? Im not planning to tie the knot again. Im not that foolish.
Eleanor froze, the kitchen turning cold and alien. The mugs, the curtains, the flowers on the sillall seemed like props on a stage she no longer recognised. Every bit of warmth and hope shed built crumbled in an instant.
But why then? she stammered. Why did I do all this? Two years, Tom! Two years I wrapped you in love and care. I thought we were building a life together!
Tom placed the mug down.
I never asked for this. You started it all yourself. I was fine as I was.
She stared, unable to believe. The man shed devoted herself to, the man whose flat shed turned into a home, simply didnt understandor didnt want to.
Fine? You were fine living in dust and grime? Sleeping on threadbare sheets? she pressed.
Yes, not perfect, but livable, he said as if commenting on the weather. Eleanor, I appreciate everything you do, truly. But I never promised marriage. After the divorce I swore off it. A stamp in the passport doesnt change anything.
It does, Eleanor whispered. To me it means were a family, we have a future, Im not just a convenient woman.
Tom tried to argue, Youve got it all wrong.
She rose from the table, walked silently to the bedroom, and began packing her belongings. Tom watched, saying nothing, not begging her to stay.
You know you have nowhere to go, right? Its late, its raining, he finally said.
Ill figure something out, she replied briefly, zipping her suitcase.
She passed him, headed for the door, paused in the hallway, took one last look at the flat. There was no longer a place for her love there.
The door shut softly behind her. She trudged down the street, rain soaking her coat, an emptiness in her chest. One thought spun in her mind: I only wanted him to be happy
She booked a modest room in a budget hotel, sank onto the edge of the bed, and finally allowed herself to weeplong, until exhaustion claimed her.
When the ache finally faded, she realised her mistake wasnt loving him. It was giving everything without ever receiving a step forward. She had built a family where appreciation was absent, warmed someone who never asked for it. She wanted to be needed, but became merely convenient. She poured her soul into a man who took it for granted, treating it like a free extra in his orderly life.
Now she knows: love isnt bought with care. You cant earn reciprocity through cleaning, cooking, or decorating.
And if another man ever enters her life, she wont rush to change his pillows or dishes. She wont race to create comfort in a strangers home. Shell watch his actions, his intentions, see whether he meets her halfway. If he does, then together theyll build a home where no one has to earn a place beside the other.
Eleanor Whitaker.
