Emily sat in the kitchen, staring at the ring with a tiny stone that Victor had given her recently. “Just because,” as usual. Once, gifts like that made her heart race—now they just left a dull ache. There was nothing worse than living with someone you didn’t love…
She and Victor had met at university. He was “that friend”—the reliable, quiet, kind one. Always there, always ready to help. Emily never took him seriously until he started pursuing her. Patiently, persistently. She even chuckled about him with her mates.
But he didn’t give up.
Eventually, they started dating. Then he moved in with her. It all happened as if by itself. Only the real feelings—the ones that mattered—never woke up.
Victor was content with everything. He’d brew her chamomile tea, wash her dishes, iron her dresses. And Emily? She’d get annoyed by the sound of his breathing. To her, he seemed weak, spineless, boring.
Her friends said she was lucky—men like that were rare. But behind her back, they whispered that Emily didn’t deserve him, that she was cold, cynical.
And still, he endured. Even when she flirted with his colleagues. Even when she pushed him away. Even when she snapped one day, “Don’t wait up. I’m leaving. I’m done with you.”
He stood in the doorway, pale, his eyes hollow. And he didn’t stop her.
A couple of weeks later, Emily met James—bold, charismatic. They crossed paths in a pub after she’d had one too many and was making a scene at the bar. He sat down beside her and said, “A year from now, you’ll regret leaving the one who loved you.”
She laughed.
With James, it was like something out of a film—fancy restaurants, sleepless nights, expensive gifts. Until the cold stares started. The jabs about her laugh being too loud, the criticism of her clothes. Then came the cheating. And he didn’t even apologise:
“What did you expect? I never made promises.”
Emily stepped out into the rain. She dialled Victor’s number. But she never pressed call.
At home, she dug out old photos—her and him, happy. His hands on her shoulders, her gazing at him with adoring eyes. Or was she just pretending?
Days later, she had a breakdown. Her heart gave out. In the hospital, for the first time, she saw indifference in Victor’s eyes instead of love.
“Why did you come?” she whispered.
“Dunno. Habit, I guess.”
And he left. Left chamomile flowers—the ones she’d once loved more than roses.
“Why were you afraid of being loved?” her therapist asked.
Emily sniffled.
“Because it’s a risk. Everyone who loved me left eventually. Dad disappeared when I was seven. Mum said, ‘Don’t trust anyone again.’ I tried. Hid behind sarcasm, sharp edges. But Victor got through…”
She cried. Quietly, like she was finally letting herself feel.
“Do you want him back?”
“More than anything. But he doesn’t want to see me. And I get why.”
Two years passed.
Emily spotted Victor in a café. By the window, flipping through a menu, tapping a familiar rhythm with his fingers. She walked over.
“Hi. Mind if I sit?”
He nodded. Stayed quiet. Studied her.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me. Just wanted to say thanks. For who you were. And sorry—for not knowing how to love.”
Emily stood and walked away.
A week later, he texted: “Let’s try again. Just take it slow.”
Now, they don’t live together. They go on dates, laugh, sit in silence. Learning to trust again.
On her fridge, there’s a magnet with a quote: “If you’re cold, warm yourself.”
And every “slow” between them is a step forward. A step toward remembering what it feels like to be loved—and to love in return.
