The Sofa “Dream”
Oliver and Emily had been together for two years. Emily often stayed over at Oliver’s when his mum went to visit her friend in Manchester or spent weekends at her cottage in the Lake District. They cherished those fleeting moments. But summer ended. Though September still warmed them with golden sunlight, the rains would soon set in. Oliver’s mum no longer disappeared to the Lake District every weekend. Now they had to wait for her trips to Manchester—and those were rare.
The young lovers grew despondent.
“Oliver, don’t you love me anymore?” Emily’s voice trembled. “Don’t you want to stay with me, in good times and bad?” Her words carried a hint—it was time to think about marriage.
They stood near her house, unable to part for half an hour.
“What makes you say that?” Oliver stepped back, searching her eyes. “I’d marry you tomorrow if I could. But where would we live? I can’t afford rent yet, and you’ve got another year of university. Unless you want to move in with me… and my mum. Or your parents—but their flat’s too small. Let’s just wait. Once you graduate—”
“But I can’t keep saying goodbye like this, waiting for your mum to leave. My parents keep asking why you haven’t proposed.” Emily inhaled sharply, but instead of a sigh, a sob escaped.
“Em, I promise—I’ll figure something out. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she echoed.
“Right. Come on.” Oliver took her hand firmly.
“Where?”
“To yours. I’ll ask your parents for your hand. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Let’s go!” Emily beamed.
Hand in hand, they entered her parents’ flat.
“Come in, you two,” her mother greeted warmly.
On the kitchen table, four teacups and a plate of biscuits and chocolates sat waiting, as if they’d been expected.
“I saw you from the window. Half an hour saying goodbye!” Her mother chuckled, catching Emily’s surprised glance. “Enough wandering the streets. Winter’s coming. And yes, we know about the sleepovers.” Emily flushed. “Your father and I have no objections to you marrying.”
“Not that we’re inviting you to live here,” her father added. “We know you’d rather have your own place. A colleague’s selling a one-bed in Camden. Thought of you straightaway.”
“Thank you, Dad!” Emily gasped.
“Don’t celebrate yet. Oliver looks like he’s swallowed a wasp.”
Oliver met her father’s gaze head-on.
“You’re not rich. I can’t accept this. I’m perfectly capable of earning my own way.”
“Why be ashamed?” Her father frowned. “It’s not stolen. Who else should we help but our children? This flat came from my parents. Now it’s our turn to give you a start. Earn more later, buy something bigger. It’s not for you—it’s for Emily, to make her happy. And she’s happy with you. Blimey, you’re a proud one.” His stern look lingered on Oliver before softening as he turned to Emily.
Under the table, Emily squeezed Oliver’s hand—*Don’t argue. Just say yes, for me.*
“Thank you,” Oliver muttered, unconvinced.
Less than a week before the wedding. The white dress hung ready, invitations sent, the restaurant booked.
“Oliver, our flat doesn’t have a sofa.” Emily already called it *ours*. “Where are we going to sleep? The floor?”
“Not a chance. We’ll buy one.”
“When?” Emily raised an eyebrow.
They headed to a furniture showroom, weaving between rows of sofas in every size and fabric. Emily tested each, eyes closed, feeling for the right one. At last, she settled on a modest-looking piece, sinking into it with a sigh.
“Excellent choice,” a saleswoman chimed in. “Last one left. Try it, love.” She nudged Oliver.
He sat beside Emily, who immediately curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Newlyweds?” The woman smiled, though their bare fingers told another story.
“Next week,” Emily admitted.
“Lovely. A sofa’s a grand way to start. Comfy?”
“Mm. Don’t want to move. How much is it?” Emily tensed, spotting the price tag.
**”Dream” Sofa**, it read—and the number made her blanch.
“Dreams don’t come cheap,” the woman mused.
“But—” Emily faltered.
“You like it?” Oliver whispered.
“Are you joking? It’s perfect.”
“Then we’ll take it.”
###
The sofa arrived the next day. Once the delivery men left, Oliver and Emily collapsed onto it, laughing between kisses.
In her wedding dress, Emily glowed. Oliver couldn’t look away, gripping her hand under the table as if afraid she’d vanish.
“What’s so special about her? Plenty of prettier girls out there,” his best mate, James, muttered during the reception.
“I don’t want ‘prettier.’ Fall in love, then you’ll understand.”
“Not bloody likely. No woman’s worth giving up freedom for.”
“Arguing?” Emily appeared, steering Oliver away.
Guests swarmed them—hugs, kisses, raucous toasts. They danced, competed in silly games, kissed to cries of *”Kiss her!”* Emily smiled through the ache of heels and heavy satin. Oliver longed to be home alone with his wife…
Finally, they crossed their threshold. Emily kicked off her shoes, suddenly tiny without them. Oliver swept her up, carrying her to the sofa.
###
Evenings blurred into shared stories on that sofa, the TV murmuring. Emily adored it—it seemed to mould to her. Every argument, every tender reconciliation happened there. Every big decision. It was the silent heart of their home.
Autumn faded; winter came and went. Spring arrived with Emily buried in final exams. Oliver grew quieter each night, brushing off her questions with, *”Same as always. Just tired.”* He’d slip away to the kitchen, leaving her uneasy.
Their first anniversary brought friends and family to their flat. James arrived with a glamorous new date. Playing hostess, Emily cleared plates, boiled the kettle.
Returning, she froze—Oliver sat on *their* sofa with *that* woman, laughing, oblivious. Her chest tightened. She urged everyone back to the table.
Once the guests left, she confronted him.
“We were just talking. James left her stranded,” Oliver defended.
“About what? On *our sofa*.”
“Where else? We’ve only got the one!”
They fought properly for the first time. No midnight cuddle fixed it. Emily faced the wall; Oliver didn’t reach for her. The sofa’s breadth allowed cold inches between them.
Morning brought no truce. Silent goodbyes, separate commutes. Even the sofa felt divided.
Then the office lost power. Rain sheeted down as Emily, dismissed early, trudged toward Oliver’s workplace, determined to reconcile.
“Emily!” James hailed her. “Off to see Olly? Fancy a coffee first?”
Exhausted, she agreed.
Over bitter coffee, James let slip: *”Olly’s always fancied flashy types, not… well, you.”*
Emily fled into the rain, heart cracking.
At home, she curled on the sofa, hollow.
Oliver found her there later, shivering.
“Emily? What’s wrong?”
She told him. Saw his gaze dart. Heard his stammered denials.
“Just leave.”
He packed haphazardly, slammed the door.
Days blurred. Her mother came. Emily barely ate, just sat in the dark, hugging her knees.
Then, one day, she passed Oliver on the street. Gaunt, unrecognisable. She nearly reached for him.
Alone on the sofa, she wondered—*Had he ever loved her?* Her fingers traced the fabric. It still held his shape.
A sharp knock startled her.
“No one’s home,” she called—but opened it.
Oliver stood there, wretched. “Can we talk?”
She let him in.
He sagged onto the sofa. “Missed this bloody thing. Tried finding another—none left.” He exhaled. “Saw you the other day. You looked… like I feel.”
“I saw you too. Almost touched you.”
“Emily, I can’t— I love you.”
“Or the sofa?” She half-smiled.
“That too. Remember buying it? You knew straightaway. Then panicked at the price.”
She heard the saleswoman’s voice in her head.
*”The ‘Dream’ sofa. Dreams cost something.”*
They spoke at once: *”Maybe—”* Then laughed.
Tension melted. She leaned into him, realising how much she’d missed him.
*How did I live without him?*
*Please forgive me.*
###
Life isn’t foolproof. Love isn’t guaranteed. But they mThey moved to a bigger house years later, but the “Dream” sofa stayed—worn, loved, and forever proof that some things, like true love, are worth holding onto.
