Emily sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the ring with its tiny stone Victor had given her not long ago. “Just because,” as always. Once, such gifts had 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 back at university. He was “that friend”—reliable, quiet, kind. Always there, always ready to help. Emily had never taken him seriously until he started courting her. Patiently, persistently. She’d even laughed about him to her girlfriends.
But he never gave up.
Eventually, they started dating. Then he moved in with her. It all happened as if by itself. Yet the real feelings—the ones that mattered—never quite woke up.
Victor was content with everything. He made her chamomile tea, washed her dishes, ironed her dresses. But even the sound of his breathing grated on her. 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 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’ve had enough of you.”
He stood in the doorway, pale, his eyes empty. And he didn’t stop her.
A fortnight later, Emily met James—bold, charismatic. They crossed paths at a pub after she’d had one too many and started dancing on the bar. He simply sat beside her and muttered, “In a year, 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, lavish gifts. Until the cold stares began, the complaints about her laugh being too loud, her clothes not fitting his taste. Then came the cheating. And he didn’t even apologise:
“What did you expect? I never made promises.”
Emily walked out into the rain. She called Victor’s number but couldn’t bring herself to press dial.
At home, she dug out old photos—him and her, smiling. His hands on her shoulders, her eyes gazing up at him like she adored him. Or was she just pretending?
Days later, she collapsed. A breakdown. In the hospital, she saw something unfamiliar in Victor’s eyes—not love, but indifference.
“Why did you come?” she whispered.
“Dunno. Habit, I suppose.”
And he left. But not before leaving chamomile flowers—the ones she’d once preferred over roses.
“Why were you afraid of being loved?” her therapist asked.
Emily swallowed a sob.
“Because it’s a gamble. Because everyone who ever loved me left. Dad disappeared when I was seven. Mum told me, ‘Don’t trust anyone.’ I tried. Hid behind sarcasm, behind cruelty. But Victor got through.”
She cried then. Quietly, as if finally allowing herself to 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 one afternoon. He sat by the window, flipping through the menu, tapping out a familiar rhythm with his fingers. She approached.
“Hi. Can I sit?”
He nodded. Said nothing. Just watched her, eyes steady.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. Just wanted to say thanks. For who you were. And I’m sorry I didn’t know how to love.”
She stood and left.
A week later, his message came: “Let’s try again. But slow.”
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, be warmer.”
And every “slow” between them is a step forward. A step toward a place where it’s possible to feel loved again—and believe, at last, that you can love back.
