Its downright dull with you. Like sitting in a library. And Ive fallen for someone else, Olivia.
Emma stared at Victor, as if the breath had been ripped from her lungs. Three years togetherthree years of hopes, plans, endless talks about a future. Then Victor dropped the two cold sentences that shattered everything.
Dull? Emma echoed, trying to feel the word. It wasnt dull for three years, and now you say its
What does it matter, Emma? Victor didnt even meet her gaze, sliding shirts into his bag. It just happened. It happens. Were not the first, not the last.
Emma wanted to scream, to argue, but her throat clenched. She could only watch the man she loved methodically erase the traces of their shared life.
After he left, the rented flat in Manchester seemed cavernous and empty. The walls pressed in, the air turned viscous. Emma sank onto the sofa and wept, but the tears brought no relief. Nights found her reaching for the cold side of the bed; days she went through her job on autopilot, never really feeling anything.
Next door, the neighbours laughed, cursed, flicked the TV on. Their voices seeped through the thin plaster, reminding Emma that somewhere a normal life was being livedfull, real. All she possessed were memories and an empty flat.
More than anything she craved simplicity: love, a home where someone waited, a place to be herself without pretending to be strong. She dreamed of a place that would accept hertired, bewildered, yearning for ordinary human warmth.
A year after the breakup, she met him
It was at the coffee shop opposite her office. Emma ducked in for a midday brew. At a window table sat a man, his face grey with fatigue, his eyes dim. Their gazes met for a breath, and Emma saw the same hollow looking backher own emptiness reflected.
That day she met George. Thirtyeight, freshly divorced, no children. He lived in a twobedroom flat that screamed neglect: dusty bookshelves, a sagging sofa, grimy windows. He wasnt cruel, just squeezed like a lemon.
Divorced three years ago, George told her on their third date, mechanically stirring his coffee. Since then Ive been doing whatever works. Workhome, homework. You get used to being alone. It even gets comfortableno one nagging, nothing expected, nothing waiting.
Emma listened and recognized her own pain, now crusted over with indifference.
Slowly she stepped into his worldfirst cautiously, then deeper. At first they simply met up: cinema, park walks, cafés. George was sparing with words, and Emma liked that after Victors endless chatter. In his silence there was a kind of beautyno need to fill the gaps with empty chatter.
Your flat feels empty, Emma remarked one afternoon, glancing around his place.
Im used to it, George shrugged. Why change anything?
But Emma saw something else: a man who had forgotten how to care for himself, how to live rather than merely exist.
Six months later Emma moved in with George. She arrived with only the essentials, but the flat began to transform. She rearranged furniture to let more light in, bought fresh linen to replace the threadbare set, swapped cracked mugs and plates, filled the rooms with potted flowers, hung light curtains that welcomed the sun. The place filled with the scent of cooking and fresh air, warming into a home.
Why are you doing all this? George asked one evening, watching Emma hang the newly laundered curtains.
I want you to enjoy coming home, she replied simply, and George fell silent.
Unaware of the change, George grew to rely on her care. He liked returning to a spotless flat that smelled of homecooked meals, a fresh bed, a dinner waiting on the table. Emma wove a cocoon of comfort around him, a place where he could relax and think of nothing else.
For two years Emma tended to Georgecooking his favourite dishes, noting whether he liked it sweeter or spicier, brewing coffee at dawn, draping a soft blanket over the sofa. She surrounded him with love, asking for nothing in return.
She postponed any talk of the future, fearing to upset the fragile balance. Each time she wanted to ask, Whats next? she stopped herself. Its too early, she told herself. Let him get used to this, let him see how good it feels.
At last, one rainy afternoon, she gathered the courage. George sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea from a new mug shed bought that week. The rain pattered against the windows, but the flat was warm and inviting.
George, when are we getting married?
George lifted his eyes from the cup and shook his head.
Marriage? Im not interested in getting married again. Im not that foolish.
Emma froze. The kitchen turned cold, the mugs, the curtains, the flowers on the sillall felt like props on a stage she no longer belonged to. All the warmth, all the hope, crumbled in an instant.
But why why did I do all this? she stammered, voice breaking. Two years, George! Two years Ive wrapped you in love and care. I thought we were building a future together!
George set the mug down.
I never asked for any of this. You started it yourself. I was fine as I was.
Emma stared, unable to comprehend. The man she had poured herself into, who watched her turn a drab flat into a home, simply didnt understandor chose not to.
Fine? she whispered, voice barely audible. Was it fine for you to live in dust and grime? To sleep on threadbare sheets?
It wasnt perfect, but it worked, George replied as if talking about the weather. I do 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 changes everything for me, Emma said softly. It means were a family, that we have a future, that Im not just a convenient woman.
George tried to protest, Youve got it all wrong, but Emma was already up from the table. She walked to the bedroom, began gathering her belongings. George watched, silent, not asking her to stay.
You know you have nowhere to go, right? he finally said. Its late, its raining outside.
Ill figure something out, she replied curtly, buckling her suitcase.
She passed him, reached the front door, paused in the hallway, took one last look at the flat. There was no longer a place for her love here.
The door closed behind her with a soft click. She walked down the rainslick streets, the cold seeping into her bones, her chest hollow. One thought looped endlessly: I only wanted him to be happy
She checked into a modest budget hotel, sank onto the edge of the bed, and finally let the tears flow. She wept until she was exhausted, until there was nothing left to cry over.
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 her effort was taken for granted, offering warmth to a man who never asked for it. She wanted to be needed, but she became merely convenient. She poured her soul into someone who treated it as a free extra in his orderly life.
Now Emma knew: love cannot be bought with care. You cannot win reciprocity through cleaning, cooking, or tidying.
And if another man ever appears, she will no longer rush to change his pillows or replace his dishes. She wont rush to create a cosy home for a stranger. She will watch his actions, his intentions, whether he walks toward her. If he invests as she does, then together they will build a home where no one has to earn a place beside the other.
