Emily sat at the kitchen table, staring at the ring with a tiny stone that Victor had given her recently. “Just because,” as always. Once, such gifts made her heart flutter—now they only brought a hollow ache. There was nothing worse than living with someone you didn’t love…
She and Victor had met at university. He was “that friend”—reliable, quiet, kind. Always there, always ready to help. Emily never took him seriously until he started pursuing her. Patiently, persistently. She even laughed about him with her girlfriends.
But he didn’t give up.
Eventually, they started dating. Then he moved in. It all happened as if by itself. Only the real feelings never came.
Victor was content with everything. He made her chamomile tea, washed her dishes, ironed her dresses. Meanwhile, Emily grew irritated by even the sound of his breathing. He seemed weak, spineless, dull.
Her friends said she was lucky—men like him were rare. But behind her back, they whispered that Emily didn’t deserve him, that she was cynical and cold.
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 bored of you.”
He stood in the doorway, pale, his eyes dim. And he didn’t stop her.
Two weeks later, Emily met James—bold, charismatic. They crossed paths in a pub where she, a little drunk, was making a scene at the bar. He sat beside her in silence and said, “In a year, you’ll regret leaving the one who loved you.”
She laughed.
With James, it was like a movie—fancy dinners, sleepless nights, expensive gifts. Until the cold glares started, the complaints about her laugh being too loud, the disapproval of her clothes. Then came the betrayal. 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 couldn’t bring herself to call.
At home, she dug out old photos—them, happy. His hands on her shoulders, her gazing at him with what looked like love. Or was it just pretending?
Days later, she had a breakdown. Her heart gave out. In the hospital, she saw something unfamiliar in Victor’s eyes—not love, but indifference.
“Why did you come?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. Habit, I suppose.”
And he left. But not without leaving chamomile flowers—the ones she once loved more than roses.
“Why were you afraid of being loved?” the therapist asked.
Emily sniffled.
“Because it’s a risk. Because everyone who ever loved me left. My dad vanished when I was seven. My mum said, ‘Don’t trust anyone again.’ I tried. I hid behind cynicism, behind sharp words. But Victor got through…”
She cried. Quietly, as if finally letting herself feel.
“Do you want him back?”
“More than anything. But he doesn’t want to see me. And I understand why.”
Two years passed.
Emily spotted Victor in a café. By the window, flipping through the menu, his fingers tapping a familiar rhythm. She approached.
“Hi. Mind if I sit?”
He nodded. Silent. Watching her closely.
“I’m not expecting forgiveness. Just wanted to say thank you. For who you were. And I’m sorry I didn’t know how to love.”
Emily stood and walked away.
A week later, he texted: *”Let’s try again. Only slowly.”*
Now, they don’t live together. They go on dates, laugh, sit in silence. Learning to trust all over again.
On her fridge hangs a magnet with a quote: *”If you’re cold, warm yourself up.”*
And every “slowly” between them is another step forward—toward that place where being loved feels possible again. Where she remembers love isn’t just something she loses, but something she can give, too.
