On a bleak January evening, as the blizzard outside stripped the trees of their last remnants of hope, Emily sat by the window, clutching a crumpled letter. The note, scrawled in a man’s uneven handwriting, was a farewell. Five years of marriage dissolved into those ink-stained lines. Daniel had left. He had simply packed his things and vanished, offering no real explanation beyond four cold words: “We’re not meant to be.”
Emily couldn’t fathom it. Everything had been fine. They had saved for a flat in London, supported each other through hardships, shared quiet evenings with tea and telly. She had loved him—truly loved him. And he? He had vanished, leaving behind only silence and an ache she couldn’t name.
She wept all night. By morning, she forced herself to work, teeth gritted. Then, on her desk—flowers. A small thing, yet they stung. “Who sent these?” she asked. “From Simon, the IT bloke,” her colleagues tittered. Emily blinked. She hadn’t noticed how he always brought her coffee, how he slipped Cadbury bars onto her desk with little notes. And now—flowers. She tossed them in the bin. Too soon.
But things shifted. Simon was persistent yet gentle. He never pushed, never demanded—just stayed near. Eight months later, he invited her to meet his parents. Emily hesitated. “What if your mum thinks poorly of me? I’ve only just divorced…” she murmured. “Mum’s lovely, don’t fret,” Simon assured her.
And at first glance, Margaret seemed warm, proper. Dinner passed without a hitch. Emily relaxed. When Simon proposed two months later, she said yes without hesitation. She’d begun to believe happiness might be possible after all.
Then, a week before the wedding, Margaret rang Emily and insisted on meeting outside her office.
“Don’t tell Simon,” she warned.
Emily stepped out. Margaret stood by her car, clutching a bag. “Probably wedding details,” Emily thought. She was wrong.
“Listen, darling, you’ve caught my son far too quickly,” Margaret began, calm but icy.
“Pardon? He proposed to *me*,” Emily stammered.
“I don’t know what stories you’ve spun, but you won’t have him. Walk away nicely. I won’t see him hurt,” Margaret said, then left.
Emily stood frozen. The next day, Daniel called.
“We need to talk,” he said.
They met. Spoke of nothing. He was calm, even smiled. Then he kissed her cheek and walked off. “What was that?” Emily wondered. The answer never came.
That evening, Simon was waiting when she returned.
“Hello,” he murmured, kissing her forehead.
“You seem tense,” Emily said warily.
“Come with me,” he led her to the kitchen, placing his phone on the table. “Look.”
A photograph. Her and Daniel. Embracing. When he’d kissed her goodbye. Clearly taken without her knowing.
“Your mother did this,” Emily whispered, trembling.
“Yes, she sent it. But that’s still you. You let him close. I can’t ignore that,” Simon said, voice hollow.
“You don’t trust me?” Tears blurred her vision.
“I don’t know what to trust. We’re postponing the wedding. I’m leaving.” He took his bag and walked out.
Emily was alone. Again. Like a cursed cycle. Every time she dared hope, dared open her heart—someone knocked her flat. She sat in the kitchen, replaying Simon’s words, Margaret’s warning, Daniel’s empty smile, that wretched photo.
“Maybe I’m cursed,” she thought, staring into the dark beyond the window.
And through the walls—the blizzard howled on.
