Boring, he said, his voice flat as a winter sky. It feels like being stuck in a dusty library. Ive fallen in love with someone else, Poppy.
Poppy stared at James, her heart snapping like a taut string finally breaking. Three years togetherthree years of hopes, plans, endless talks about the futurehad collapsed in two cruel words.
Boring? Poppy repeated, trying to grasp its meaning. It wasnt boring for three years, and now suddenly
It doesnt matter, Poppy, James said without looking up, folding his shirts into a duffel. It just happened. It happens. Were not the first, we wont be the last.
She wanted to scream, to argue, but the lump in her throat held her hostage. She watched in silence as the man she loved methodically folded away the remnants of their shared life.
When he left, the council flat seemed to swallow her whole. The walls pressed in, the air grew thick as treacle. She sank onto the worn couch and wept, but the tears brought no relief. Nights found her reaching for the empty side of the bed; days saw her moving through work like a robot, detached from everything.
Behind the thin plaster, neighbours laughed, cursed, and flicked on the telly. Their voices seeped through, reminding Poppy that somewhere else life went onfull, real, noisy. She was left with only memories and an empty flat.
What she craved most was simple: love, a home where someone waited, a place where she could be herself without pretending to be strong. She dreamed of a world that would take her as she wastired, bewildered, aching for ordinary human warmth.
A year after the breakup, she met him.
It happened in a little café opposite her office. Poppy ducked in for a lunch coffee. By the window sat a man, his face grey with fatigue, his eyes dim. Their gazes met for a heartbeat, and Poppy saw in him the same hollow emptiness that had settled in her.
That day she met David. He was thirtyeight, freshly divorced, childfree. He lived in a twobed flat that whispered of neglect: dusty bookshelves, a sagging sofa, grimy windows. He wasnt angry, just squeezed like a lemon.
Divorced three years ago, David said on their third date, stirring his coffee mechanically. Since then I just get on with whatever. Workhome, homework. You get used to being alone. It even gets comfortableno one nagging, no expectations, no waiting.
Poppy listened and recognised her own pain, now crusted over with indifference.
Slowly she slipped into his worldfirst cautiously, then deeper. At first they simply met up: a film, a walk in the park, a coffee in a local shop. David was sparing with words, but that suited Poppy after Victors endless chatter. In his silence there was a strange beautyno need to fill pauses with empty phrases.
Your flat is empty, Poppy remarked one afternoon, looking around his place.
Got used to it, David shrugged. Why bother changing it?
Poppy saw something else: a man who had forgotten how to care for himself, who lived rather than existed.
Six months later she moved in. She arrived with only the essentials, but gradually the flat transformed. She rearranged the furniture to let in more light, bought fresh bedding to replace the threadbare sheets, swapped cracked mugs for new ones, brought in potted flowers that blossomed on the windowsill, hung light curtains that let sunlight spill in. The air filled with the scent of homecooked meals and clean linen. The place breathed, warmed, alive.
Why are you doing all this? David asked one evening, watching her hang the newly laundered curtains.
I want you to enjoy coming home, she replied simply. He said nothing.
Unaware of the shift, David grew accustomed to her care. He liked returning to a tidy flat that smelled of fresh food, to a table set with dinner, to a bed that felt soft and new. Poppy wove a cocoon of comfort around him, a space where he could relax and think of nothing else.
For two years she tended to Davidcooking his favourite dishes, noting his preference for a touch more sugar or a dash of spice, filling every corner with warmth, from the aroma of morning coffee to a soft blanket on the sofa. She gave love without demanding anything back.
Two years passed before she dared to raise the future. Fear of upsetting the fragile balance kept her silent, each time the question Whats next? rose in her throat.
At last she asked.
David sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea from a fresh mug shed bought the week before. Rain pattered against the window, but the flat was warm and cosy.
David, when will we get married?
He looked up, shook his head.
Marriage? Im not going to tie the knot again. Im not that foolish.
Poppy froze. The kitchen turned cold, the mugs, the curtains, the flowers on the sillall felt like props in someone elses play. Every hope shed built crumbled in an instant.
But why then? she stammered. Why did I do all this? Two years, David! Two years I wrapped you in love and care. I thought we were building a future together!
David set his mug down.
I never asked for this. You started it all yourself. I was fine as I was.
She stared, disbelief flashing across her face. The man shed nurtured, the man whod watched a barren flat become a home, simply didnt understandor chose not to.
Fine? Her voice trembled. Was it fine for you to live in dust and grime? To sleep on threadbare sheets?
Yeah, not perfect but livable, David replied as if talking about the weather. 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, Poppy whispered. For me it means were a family, that we have a future, that Im not just a convenient woman.
David tried to argue, Youve got it all wrong.
Poppy rose from the table, gathered her suitcase in silence. David watched, saying nothing, not begging her to stay.
You know theres nowhere for you to go, dont you? he finally said. Its late, its raining.
Ill figure something out, she replied curtly, zipping her bag.
She passed him, walked to the front door, paused in the hallway, took one last look at the flatnow empty of her love.
The door closed softly behind her. She walked down the rainslicked street, the cold pressing against her chest, the thought looping endlessly: I just wanted him to be happy
She checked into a modest B&B, sat on the edge of the bed, and finally let herself cry. She sobbed until exhaustion drained her.
When the raw ache faded, she understood. Her mistake wasnt loving; it was giving everything without receiving a step forward. Shed built a family where gratitude was scarce, offered warmth to a man who never asked for it, planned a future with someone who lived only in the present. Shed wanted to be needed, but became merely convenient. Shed poured her soul into a man who treated it as a free extra in his orderly life.
Now she knew love cant be bought with chores. You cant win affection by scrubbing, cooking, or tidying.
One day, when another man enters her life, she wont rush to change his pillows or replace his dishes. She wont rush to create a cosy nest in someone elses house. Shell watch his actions, his intentions, whether he walks toward her as she does toward him. If hes willing to invest as much as she does, then together theyll build a home where no one has to earn a place beside the other.
The end.
