The Sofa “Dream”
Oliver and Emily had been together for two years. Emily would stay over at Oliver’s whenever his mum went to her cottage in the Cotswolds or visited her friend in Edinburgh. They treasured those fleeting moments. But summer had ended. September still offered warm, sunny days, yet the rain loomed. His mother no longer left every weekend for the cottage. Now they could only wait for her trips to Edinburgh, which were rare.
The lovers grew despondent.
“Oliver, don’t you love me anymore? Don’t you want to be with me, through thick and thin?” Emily’s voice carried the unspoken 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 take you to the registry office right now, but where would we live? I can’t afford rent yet, and you’ve another year of uni. Unless—you’d be okay living with Mum. Staying with your parents isn’t an option either. Your flat’s too small. Let’s wait a little longer. Once you graduate—”
“But I can’t keep saying goodbye every day, waiting for your mum to leave. My parents keep asking why you haven’t proposed.” Emily drew a breath, but instead of a sigh, a quiet sob escaped.
“Em, I promise I’ll figure something out. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she echoed.
“Alright. 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 brightened instantly.
Hand in hand, they entered Emily’s flat.
“Come in, you two,” her mother greeted warmly.
On the kitchen table sat four teacups and a dish of biscuits and sweets, as if they’d been expected.
“I saw you from the window,” her mother smiled, catching Emily’s surprised glance. “Half an hour saying goodbye—enough of this wandering. Winter’s coming. We know you’ve been sleeping together,” she added, making Emily blush. “Your father and I have no objections to the wedding.”
“Not here, though. We understand you wouldn’t want to live with us. A colleague’s selling a one-bed flat. Thought of you straightaway,” her father chimed in.
“Thanks, Dad!” Emily exclaimed.
“Don’t celebrate yet. Oliver’s gone all quiet.”
Oliver met her father’s gaze squarely.
“You’re not wealthy. I can’t accept such a gift. I’m a fit, healthy bloke—I can earn a flat myself.”
“What’s there to be ashamed of?” Her father frowned slightly. “We’re buying it, not stealing. Who else should we help but our children? This flat came from my parents. Now it’s our turn to set you up. Earn later, buy bigger, but start small. And I’m not doing it for you—it’s for our daughter’s happiness. And she’s happy with you. Too proud, this one.” His stern look softened as it lingered on Emily.
Under the table, Emily squeezed Oliver’s hand—don’t argue, just agree.
“Thank you,” Oliver said flatly.
Less than a week remained until the wedding. The white dress was bought, invitations sent, the restaurant booked.
“Oliver, we don’t have a sofa in the flat,” Emily said, already calling it *theirs*. “Where are we going to sleep? On the floor?”
“No chance. We’ll buy one.”
“But when?”
So off they went to the furniture shop. They wandered between rows of sofas in different sizes and fabrics. Emily tested each, searching for the right feel. Finally, a modest-looking one caught her eye. She sat, closed her eyes.
“Excellent choice,” a saleswoman’s voice chimed nearby.
Emily opened her eyes to see the woman smiling warmly.
“See you like this one. You won’t regret it.” She listed its perks. “Last one left. Try it too,” she urged Oliver.
He sat beside Emily, who immediately curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Newlyweds?” the saleswoman asked, despite their bare ring fingers.
“Not yet, but next week,” Emily beamed.
“Congratulations. A lovely way to start married life—with a new sofa. Comfy?”
“Very. I don’t want to get up. How much is it?” Emily’s smile faltered as she glanced at the tag.
*”The ‘Dream’ Sofa,”* she read, eyes widening at the price.
“Dreams always come at a cost,” the woman mused.
“But—”
“Do you love it?” Oliver whispered.
“Are you joking? It’s the comfiest one here.”
“Then we’ll take it.”
“Fine choice. Let’s sort the paperwork.”
The next day, the sofa arrived. Once the movers left, Oliver and Emily sank into it, lost in kisses.
In her white dress, Emily looked breathtaking. Oliver couldn’t take his eyes off her, clutching her hand under the table as if afraid she’d vanish.
“What do you see in her? She’s just a girl—plenty better out there,” his best man muttered.
“I don’t want better. Fall in love, then you’ll understand.”
“Not me. No beauty’s worth giving up freedom.”
“Arguing?” Emily appeared, steering her new husband away.
Guests swarmed, each eager to hug and kiss her. They danced, competed, kissed to cries of *”Kiss the bride!”* Emily smiled through fatigue, heels and heavy dress weighing her down. All Oliver wanted was to be home, alone with his wife.
Finally, they stepped into their flat. Emily kicked off her shoes, suddenly tiny and tired. Oliver swept her up, carrying her to the sofa…
Evenings found them there, sharing their days. Emily adored that sofa—it seemed to mold to her. Every argument, every tender reconciliation happened there. Every major decision was made on it. It was the heart of their home.
Autumn and winter passed. Spring brought exams. Oliver grew quieter each evening, shrugging off Emily’s questions.
“Same as always. Sorry, I’m knackered,” he’d say, retreating to the kitchen. Her instincts prickled—this wasn’t just tiredness.
At their first anniversary, his best man brought a striking new date. Emily, playing hostess, carried plates to the kitchen. When she returned, Oliver was deep in conversation with the woman—on *their* sofa. Her chest ached.
Later, she confronted him.
“We were just talking. She was left alone, so I kept her company.”
“About what, so intently? On *our* sofa,” she stressed.
“Where else? We’ve only got one.”
Their first real fight simmered. Usually, bedtime brought reconciliation, but not this time. Emily turned away. Oliver didn’t reach for her.
Morning brought no truce. Silent, they parted for work. Even the sofa felt too small for the distance between them.
A power outage at work sent Emily home early. Rain lashed down, wind biting. Instead of going home, she headed for Oliver’s office, ready to make amends.
“Emily!” His best man, Harry, spotted her. “What brings you here? Off to see Ollie?”
She confessed their fight.
“Let’s grab coffee first.”
At the café, conversation stalled.
“Not married yet?” she asked. “That brunette from our anniversary—?”
“Just a coworker. Like I said, no woman’s worth my freedom.”
Her breath hitched. Oliver hadn’t mentioned she was a colleague…
“Ollie’s always liked flashier women, not… well. Forget I said anything,” Harry backtracked.
Emily left, rain mixing with tears.
At home, she curled on the sofa, crying herself to sleep. She woke to Oliver’s worried gaze.
“You’re shivering. Are you ill?”
*No… he loves me,* she hoped.
“I saw Harry. He hinted you were seeing that colleague—the one at our anniversary.”
Oliver’s evasive look confirmed everything.
“Just go.”
He packed haphazardly and left.
Days blurred. Emily ignored calls, barely ate. Her mother came, worried.
Then, one day, she spotted Oliver—gaunt, hollow-eyed. She barely stopped herself from touching him.
Alone, she sat on the sofa, remembering. *Had he really forgotten everything?*
A sharp knock startled her.
“Go away,” she muttered, but opened it.
Oliver stood there, weary. “Can we talk?”
She let him in.
“I missed this sofa,” he admitted, sinking into it. “I couldn’t find another like it. I saw you… I couldn’t live without you.”
“Or the sofa?” she smirked.
“And the sofa. Remember buying it? You knew it was the one, then panicked at the price. What did the saleswoman say?”
*”The ‘Dream’They sat together on the “Dream” sofa, fingers intertwined, knowing that some things—like love and the perfect piece of furniture—are worth holding onto through every storm.
