**The Sofa “Dream”**
Oliver and Emily had been dating for two years. Emily used to stay over at Oliver’s when his mum was away—either at her countryside cottage or visiting her friend in Manchester. Those fleeting moments were precious to them. But summer had ended. September still offered warm, sunny days, though the rain was inevitable. His mum no longer spent every weekend at the cottage, and trips to Manchester were rare now.
The young lovers grew glum.
“Oliver, don’t you love me anymore? Don’t you want us to be together, through thick and thin?” Emily’s words carried a subtle hint—it was time to think about marriage.
They stood outside her house, unable to part for half an hour.
“What gave you that idea?” Oliver stepped back, studying her face. “I’d take you to the registry office right now, but where would we live? I can’t afford rent yet, and you’ve got a year left in uni. Unless you’re okay moving in with me and my mum. Living with your parents isn’t an option either—your flat’s too small. Let’s wait, at least till 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 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.
“Okay, come on,” Oliver said decisively, taking her hand.
“Where?”
“To your place. I’ll ask your parents for your hand. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Let’s go!” Emily replied, brightening.
Hand in hand, they entered her parents’ flat.
“Come in, you two,” her mum greeted warmly.
Four teacups and a tray of biscuits and sweets sat on the kitchen table, as if they’d been expected.
“I saw you through the window, taking half an hour to say goodbye,” her mum chuckled, catching Emily’s surprised glance. “No more wandering the streets—winter’s coming. We know where you’ve been sleeping.” Emily flushed. “Your father and I have no objections to you marrying.”
“We’re not inviting you to live here,” her dad added. “We understand you’d want your own space. A colleague’s selling a one-bed flat—I thought of you straightaway.”
“Thanks, Dad!” Emily exclaimed.
“Don’t celebrate yet. Oliver looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.”
Oliver met her father’s gaze squarely.
“You’re not wealthy. I can’t accept such a gift. I’m fit and capable—I’ll earn our home myself.”
“What’s there to be ashamed of?” her dad countered, a bit hurt. “It’s not stolen, is it? Who else should we help but our children? I got this flat from my parents—now it’s our turn to give you a start. Earn more later, buy bigger, but for now, make do. And it’s not for you—it’s for her happiness, and she’s happiest with you. Blimey, you’re proud.” His stern look softened as he glanced at Emily.
Under the table, Emily squeezed Oliver’s hand—*Don’t argue, just agree.*
“Thanks,” Oliver muttered, unconvinced.
With less than a week until the wedding, Emily’s white dress hung ready, invitations had been sent, and the restaurant booked.
“Oliver, our flat doesn’t have a sofa,” Emily said, already calling it *ours*. “Where will we sleep? The floor?”
“Not a chance. We’ll buy one.”
“When?” she pressed.
They headed to a furniture shop, weaving between rows of sofas in every size and fabric. Emily tested each, tuning into how they felt. Eventually, she settled on a modest-looking one, sinking into it with closed eyes.
“Excellent choice,” a saleswoman chimed in.
Emily blinked up at her.
“You won’t regret this one. Last in stock.” She listed its virtues. “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, though neither wore rings.
“Almost—wedding’s next week,” Emily beamed.
“Congratulations! Starting married life with a sofa’s brilliant. Comfy?”
“Very. I never want to get up. How much is it?”
The saleswoman turned the price tag toward them.
“Sofa ‘Dream’,” Emily read, eyes widening at the cost.
“Dreams don’t come cheap,” the woman said wisely.
“But—”
“You like it?” Oliver whispered.
“Are you joking? It’s perfect.”
“Then we’ll take it.”
“Brilliant. Let’s sort the paperwork.”
The next day, the sofa arrived. Once the deliverymen left, Oliver and Emily collapsed onto it, kissing.
In her white dress, Emily looked breathtaking. Oliver couldn’t stop staring, clutching 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 man remarked.
“I don’t want prettier. Fall in love, and you’ll understand.”
“Not me. No woman’s worth giving up freedom for.”
“What’s the debate?” Emily appeared, steering Oliver away.
Guests swarmed them—hugs, kisses, toasts of “Cheers!” They danced, competed in silly games, and kissed on demand. Emily smiled through sore feet and a heavy dress, while Oliver longed to be home, alone with his wife.
Finally, inside their flat, Emily kicked off her heels, shrinking adorably. Oliver scooped her up, carrying her to the sofa…
Evenings unfolded there—watching telly, sharing their days. Emily adored the sofa, as if it moulded to her. Every argument, every tender reconciliation happened on it. It witnessed every pivotal moment, the heart of their home.
Autumn passed, then a snowy winter. Spring arrived, and Emily buried herself in exams. Oliver grew distant, shrugging off her questions with, “Same old. Just tired,” before retreating to the kitchen. Her instincts prickled—it wasn’t fatigue.
At their first anniversary, his best man brought a striking new woman. Playing hostess, Emily cleared plates, boiled the kettle. Returning, she found Oliver deep in conversation with the woman on *their* sofa, oblivious to others. Her heart ached. She hurried everyone back to the table.
Later, she confronted him.
“We were just talking. Matt abandoned her—I was being polite.”
“About what, so intently? On *our* sofa.”
“Where else? We’ve only got one,” he said, baffled.
Their first real fight erupted. Usually, bedtime melted their anger—tight embraces, whispered apologies. Not this time. Emily faced the wall; Oliver didn’t reach for her. The sofa’s width allowed cold separation.
Morning brought no resolution. They left for work in silence, sitting apart at home. Emily agonised, restless.
A power cut sent her home early. Rain lashed sideways, wind clawing at her coat. Instead of heading home, she detoured to Oliver’s office, ready to apologise.
“Emily?” Matt called out. “Here for Olly? Fancy a coffee first?”
Exhausted, she agreed.
Over cakes, Matt mused, “You’re not married yet?”
“To that brunette from our anniversary? She’s just a colleague. I’d never shackle myself.”
Emily’s jealousy flared. Oliver hadn’t mentioned that.
“Honestly?” Matt hesitated. “Olly’s always fancied flashier girls than you. Like that colleague.”
The coffee turned bitter. Emily stood. “I’ve heard enough.”
Wind whipped her hair, rain stung her cheeks. *So it wasn’t in my head.*
Drenched and numb, she trudged home, collapsing onto the sofa, hugging a cushion, and cried herself to sleep.
Oliver woke her, concerned. “You’re shivering. Are you ill?”
*He couldn’t have… He loves me.*
She sat up, shoulders hunched.
“Em, something’s wrong. Talk to me.”
“I saw Matt. He hinted you’re with that colleague—the one from our anniversary.”
Oliver’s evasion, his stumbling excuses, made her temples throb.
“Stop. Just go.”
He packed haphazardly, slamming the door. Emily wept into the sofa.
Days blurred. She ignored calls, barely ate. Her mum bustled in, alarmed.
One evening, she spotted Oliver—gaunt, hollow-eyed—passing her unseeingly. That night, alone on the sofa, she traced where he’d sat, half-expecting him to return.
A sharp knock startled her.
“Go away!” she called.
It persisted. She yanked the door open—Oliver stood there, weathered but determined.
“Hi. Can we talk?”
She let him in. He locked the door, shed his coat, and sank ontoAs they sat together on the sofa, the one they had bought with love and dreams, Oliver took her hand and whispered, “This is where we belong, always.”
