**At the Mercy of the Heart**
Emily stepped out of the office just as the lift doors opened and people piled inside.
“Wait!” she called out, breaking into a light jog.
At the end of the workday, like every morning, the lift was a battle to catch. Emily squeezed in at the last second, pressing close to the man in front of her so the doors could slide shut behind her.
“Sorry,” she murmured, turning her face away—otherwise, his chin would have brushed her forehead. He smelled faintly of cologne.
“No worries.”
They rode down in silence, shoulders touching, until the lift stopped at the ground floor. Emily stepped back, but the man caught her arm, guiding her gently to avoid the rush of people stepping out. It felt like a dance. Before she could thank him, her colleague Charlotte appeared beside her.
“Going home? Need a lift?”
Emily barely had time to glance back at the man before Charlotte pulled her attention away.
“No, I’ll walk. Need some air.”
Outside, a light drizzle had begun, and office workers hurried past under umbrellas.
“It’s raining. Stay here, I’ll bring the car around.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather walk.” Emily pulled out her own umbrella.
Charlotte narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Suit yourself.”
Emily said goodbye, popped open her umbrella, and merged into the stream of pedestrians. She wanted to be alone, to think. She wasn’t in a hurry to get home—not really.
The umbrella was a nuisance, forcing her to weave around others. Eventually, she closed it and shoved it into her bag. Spring had arrived—buds on the trees, the first tender leaves unfurling. A fleeting moment worth remembering.
She walked, wondering how she’d ended up here—again—in the wrong place, with the wrong man. It wasn’t about location; it was about relationships. She lived in a flat left to her by her grandmother, no mortgage or loans weighing her down. That very fact seemed to draw the wrong kind of men. Too late, she realised it.
Now she dragged her feet, walking slow, anything to delay returning to the flat where Darren—no, not Darren, but the dinner she’d have to cook for him—waited. And it had all started so beautifully…
***
She and her mum had lived alone since Dad left when Emily was nine. Then, during her GCSEs, Mum remarried. Suddenly, a strange man occupied their home. Emily, used to lounging in shorts and a vest, was scolded for dressing “inappropriately” around him. She already felt awkward—now she barely left her room.
Gran solved it by inviting Emily to stay while “the newlyweds adjusted.”
By the time she started uni, Gran had passed, and Emily was alone. There was a boy at uni—James. Popular, handsome, out of her league. But one day, he sat beside her in a lecture. A month later, he moved in.
Mum warned her, but Emily wouldn’t listen. She wasn’t interfering with Mum’s life—Mum could stay out of hers. They fought.
Nearly two years passed, like a little family. Graduation loomed. Emily assumed James would propose. Instead, he told her he was leaving.
“Home?” she asked. “When will you be back?”
“I won’t. I’m moving to London. My uncle’s got me a job there.”
“And me?”
“Em, don’t make this harder. We had a good thing, yeah? I’m grateful—you saved me from halls. But I need to move forward. I don’t want marriage yet. I want a career, a London flat, to travel. I never promised you anything—did I?”
“We could’ve gone together—”
“No.”
As he spoke, she realised she didn’t know him at all. She cried, begged, swore she loved him.
“I don’t love you. It was convenient. You’re sweet, Em. You’ll find some bloke, settle down, have kids. But that’s not for me—not now.”
He left. She sobbed into her pillow for days. Mum came, not to say “I told you so,” just to hold her. The cruelest part? He’d never loved her—just the free flat.
***
Emily took months to recover. She avoided dating. The office was mostly women anyway.
Then she noticed a guy at the bus stop. Same route, same time. Soon, they smiled, exchanged hellos, even chatted. She liked their no-strings connection—strangers, yet not strangers. Some mornings, she hurried, hoping to see him.
Then he vanished. She waited, missed her bus thinking he’d be late. But he never came.
One evening, crossing the street, she saw him. Her heart leapt.
“Where’ve you been? Off sick?” she asked.
“Got laid off. No more rush-hour commute. Freelancing now—but Mum and my sister keep distracting me.” He smiled. “I wanted to see you. Never even got your name.”
“Emily.”
“Darren. My mates call me Daz.”
They walked, talking, slipping into first names.
“Will I see you again?” she asked outside her building.
“Course. I live close—I’ll wait at the stop.”
He did. They talked. Emily didn’t mention her flat—didn’t want another freeloader. But Daz never invited himself in, never pushed. He lived with his family, not some dingy dorm.
She liked him—liked their uncomplicated almost-romance. He was ordinary, not like James. At twenty-five, she wanted love—wanted to forget past mistakes.
One rainy evening, she invited him over. Then suggested he move in. Quieter for work, no more bus-stop meetings.
Daz never found a job. “I earn more online,” he claimed—video editing, freelance web design. He proposed quickly, but wedding plans stalled. Some money went to his family, some “saved.”
At first, he peeled potatoes, shopped. Then the beer cans piled up. He stopped shaving, wore joggers constantly.
“I asked you to hang the laundry. Now it’s all creased,” she snapped one day.
“Just ’cause I work from home doesn’t mean I’m your maid. I’m busy earning—unlike you, clocking out at five.”
Fights erupted. Wedding talk died.
When she asked about savings—enough for three weddings by her math—he exploded. “It’s my money! I’ve got family to care for!”
He backtracked, but the damage was done.
Emily stopped rushing home. A sink full of dishes, beer cans, cooking for two—Daz had grown soft, lazy. They barely spoke.
Today, despite the rain, she walked slow, rehearsing the breakup speech.
“Em!”
She didn’t react.
“Emily!”
She turned. A well-dressed man in a sharp suit and neatly trimmed beard stepped from a BMW.
“I’ve been shouting. Penny for your thoughts?”
“Daniel? Danny Fletcher?”
“The one and only.”
“You look… different.”
“You haven’t changed. Still gorgeous.”
They talked over each other—jobs, life.
“Married, a son, another on the way,” he said.
Emily thought of her empty milestones—no husband, no kids, just a flat and a job.
“And you?” he asked.
“Single. Career-focused.”
“Smart. You’ve got time. I always fancied you in school, you know.”
She hadn’t noticed the lanky boy with sticking-out ears. Would she have chosen differently if she’d known?
“Wait—why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Dunno. Half the lads liked you.”
She kissed his cheek. “Should’ve told me sooner.”
She walked away before his wife and son appeared.
Back home, Daz sprawled on the sofa, beer in hand, laptop asleep.
Emily yanked open the wardrobe, dumping clothes onto him.
“What the—?”
“You arrived with a backpack. Now you’ve got a wardrobe’s worth. Take it. And your shoes.”
“You kicking me out?”
“Spot on.”
He shouted, called her names, but left, slamming the door.
She cleaned until no trace of him remained. Slept soundly for the first time in months.
Next morning, she wore a bright dress, heels, lipstick. Missed her bus.
A BMW pulled up.
“Need a lift?” the driver called.
She hesitated, then got in.
“You know where I’m going?” she asked.
“We work in the same building. Different floors. I’ve seen you in the lift—always lost in thought. Today, you’re different. Stunning.”
She studied him. That cologne—she knew it.
Six months later, they married.
Happiness isn’t found by clinging to what weighs you down. Sometimes, you must stop, reassess, cut loose what no longer serves you. And no matter how many times love disappoints, the heart still dares to hope.
