The Shadow of Shattered Dreams
Emma sat in a cosy café in the heart of London, sipping her tea while her friend Lily stirred her coffee, studying her with a curious gaze.
“You’re acting odd today,” Lily said, narrowing her eyes. “Come on, out with it—what’s going on?”
“Matthew proposed to me,” Emma murmured, but her smile held no joy.
“Seriously? Finally!” Lily brightened, then frowned. “Why aren’t you over the moon? You’ve waited years for this!”
“I turned him down,” Emma’s voice trembled as she looked away.
“What?” Lily nearly spilled her coffee. “You dreamed of this! Matthew’s been by your side all this time, and you just—why?”
“After what he did, I couldn’t say yes,” Emma replied cryptically, her eyes darkening with memory.
“What did he do?” Lily leaned in, unable to mask her curiosity.
Emma took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts, and began her story. Lily listened, scarcely believing what she heard.
Emma had always imagined love as if plucked from a romantic film—bouquets, passionate declarations, grand gestures. She saw herself as the heroine of an eternal love story, life itself a whirlwind of emotion. But reality proved far more complicated.
Young and idealistic, Emma learned love through trial and error, her theatrical nature turning every romance into a drama. Her first serious relationship lasted four years. At eighteen, she fell hard, convinced theirs was a legendary love—until his indifference shattered her illusions.
She decided to leave, but not quietly—she needed a cinematic exit. At the train station, just before departure, she announced coldly, “I’m ending this.”
“Why? What happened?” he stammered.
“It’s for the best,” she replied, vanishing into the carriage as the train pulled away. He chased after, shouting his love, but she met him with a single, icy word: “Never.”
A year later came Oliver, a charming banker who showered her with flowers, gifts, and weekend getaways. For two years, they seemed destined for marriage—until he mentioned a job transfer. “Imagine,” he mused, “us married, you at home with the kids, cooking my favourite shepherd’s pie…”
Emma recoiled. The mundane future he painted was a far cry from her dreams of endless romance. “Not likely,” she snapped. “I hate shepherd’s pie.” With that, she walked away, the wind catching her scarf as she imagined him heartbroken in her wake.
Countless suitors followed, but none lasted—until Matthew. Their bond deepened quickly, and soon they were raising a son together. Emma assumed marriage was inevitable, but years passed with no proposal. Her frustration grew. She tried sweetness, manipulation, even anger—nothing worked.
Eventually, she concluded Matthew didn’t truly love her. Real love was fiery, passionate—not this steady, unremarkable devotion. Resentment festered into revenge. She wouldn’t just leave; she’d make him feel her pain.
Five years in, Matthew invited her to a posh restaurant. “Why?” she asked, though her pulse quickened.
“I want to talk,” he said vaguely.
Inside, the scene was perfect—candlelight, roses, soft music. After wine, he finally spoke: “Emma, we’ve spent years together. We have a son. It’s time we made it official.”
She stared silently. “Plus,” he added, “I’ve been offered a job abroad—but they only take married couples.”
“Married?” She scoffed. “Is this about what *you* want? What about me?”
His face fell. “What?”
“You had ten years to prove you loved me. You failed.” She stood. “We’re done.”
She strode out, the night air cool on her cheeks. *Just like in the films,* she thought.
Back at the café, Lily gaped. “I don’t get it! You wanted this! You have a son, a life together—are you mad?”
“I dreamed too long,” Emma said bitterly. “He was too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“To prove he loved me *properly*.”
Lily sighed. “You’ll regret this.”
“I already do,” Emma admitted. “But at least he knows how it feels to be taken for granted.”
That evening, she returned home to find Matthew’s things gone. *Fine,* she thought. *Let’s see how long he lasts.*
A month passed. No calls, no visits. Another month, and her resolve wavered. Finally, she dialled his number—no answer. She called his office.
“May I speak to Matthew?” she asked, forcing calm.
“He’s abroad,” the receptionist replied. “Left right after his wedding. Who’s calling?”
Emma hung up, the ground crumbling beneath her.
*Sometimes, the grand exit is just the beginning of the loneliness.*
