The Anticipation of Happiness
They say the thrill lies in waiting for happiness rather than in happiness itself. Because while you wait, you hope, you imagine—you’re already happy. But the moment you grasp it, it vanishes too quickly. You barely have time to savour it before it becomes routine, ordinary. Then, once more, you begin to wait…
Mark Evans had everything: a flat in London, a car, a well-paying job at a respectable firm, and, by the way, a strikingly beautiful wife. They’d been sweethearts since secondary school—first love blossoming into marriage against all odds.
Then there was his four-year-old daughter, Lottie. His sunshine, his pride and joy. His wife, Emily, stayed home to care for her while he worked. What more could any man need? Life was as good as it gets. But that’s human nature—when everything’s settled, the heart still yearns for more.
Over time, he and Emily had grown comfortable. They understood each other without words, even in silence. The fire of early passion had mellowed into something steady, reliable.
Every morning, Mark sipped strong coffee waiting for him after his shower, slipped into crisp shirts smelling of ocean breeze, kissed Emily on the cheek, and drove his Audi to the office.
Evenings brought a home-cooked meal. Weekends were for barbecues at his parents’ cottage or snowy sledding trips. He counted himself lucky—few men had life fall into place so effortlessly.
And yet…
One day, a new colleague joined the office—fresh-faced, with doe-like dark eyes, slightly shy. Her name was Lucy Hart. Lucy—melodic, like a song. Maybe it was her eyes, or the music in her name, or just the thrill of something new, but she left him spellbound. Suddenly, he knew: she was what he’d been waiting for.
He kept bumping into her—by the coffee machine, in the canteen at lunch. Then he realised: she was seeking him out too.
One morning, he waited in his car outside the office, watching for her. When she appeared, he timed his exit perfectly, holding the door open for her as if by chance.
In the lift, he stole glances. Sometimes, he caught her looking back. But they never spoke—too many colleagues around.
Then, one day, they rode up alone. He asked about her job, the weather, her weekend plans. She answered with amused smiles.
Autumn passed. Winter came. The office Christmas party loomed—his chance. No one would question him coming home late, or not at all.
All evening, he kept Lucy in sight. When the music started, he was the first to ask her to dance. Holding her close, his heart raced—just like that first school dance when he’d twirled his then-classmate Emily, now his wife. Lucy’s dark eyes promised him everything.
Flushed from wine and dancing, they slipped outside for air. He suggested they leave. Without hesitation, she agreed. Laughing, they raced into the night.
The security guard watched them go, envious. No one had invited him to the party. He’d been stuck manning the desk, forgotten. But Mark and Lucy didn’t think of him.
They walked through London, chatting easily. Mark avoided mentioning his family; Lucy pretended not to care. With her, everything felt light. *Lucky, lucky…* His heart pounded in time with their footsteps.
Exhausted, he finally asked, *“Lucy, do you live outside the city?”*
She laughed. *“On the outskirts—new builds. Let’s get a cab.”*
At her flat, he lingered. Sobriety crept in—his conscience whispered he’d still make it home to read Lottie a bedtime story. Then Lucy invited him up for coffee. *Just fifteen minutes*, he told himself, dismissing the cab.
The coffee never happened. They barely made it past the doorway. Hours later, he woke in her bed.
The view from her thirteenth-floor window was pitch black—no stars, no city lights. Just endless darkness. Lucy joined him. For a moment, they seemed alone in the universe, floating above the snow-dusted earth. A rush of joy filled him—*this* was what he’d longed for.
Leaving was hard, but he couldn’t risk Emily suspecting. He showered, dressed, and promised Lucy he’d return soon. Then he took a cab back to his car and drove home.
He slipped into bed at half past two. Streetlight spilled through the curtains. Emily lay still, feigning sleep. He pretended to believe her, sliding under the covers without touching her.
He thought he’d lie awake replaying the night. Instead, sleep took him instantly.
Their marriage had always been quiet. No shouting, no scenes. Thin walls, after all. Even if he confessed, he doubted Emily would scream.
Guests envied him. His colleagues saw men dragged down by domestic strife. Emily never nagged, never counted his drinks. To the world, they were perfect. *Had* been perfect—until Lucy.
The next morning, he woke lighter, humming in the shower. Emily handed him coffee, offered her cheek for a kiss.
From then on, he met Lucy at her flat. The outskirts were safe—no one they knew lived there. Only young women like Lucy or families scraping by.
Sometimes guilt gnawed at him. Living a double life was wrong. If Emily had been cruel, he might have justified it. But she wasn’t. So why?
He weighed it all—Emily, Lottie, their life—against the passion Lucy stirred. She made him feel young again. How could he give that up?
A year passed. But all things end—even sweets lose their taste. The thrill faded. More and more, he longed for quiet evenings at home.
He knew Emily inside out. Lucy was wonderful—but would she be the same as a wife? He had too much to lose. And lately, she’d started asking: *When will we be together?*
He made excuses—Lottie was still young, give it time. But Lucy grew impatient. It unsettled him. He’d heard stories of mistresses confronting wives. The scales tipped—Emily was safe, familiar. Lucy? Unpredictable.
Breaking it off proved impossible. One kiss, and he forgot his resolve. If only he could blend Emily’s steadiness with Lucy’s fire.
Then, at work, drafting a breakup speech in his head, pain seared through his chest. His breath vanished. He stood, staggered—then darkness.
Voices swam through the fog:
*“He lasted longer than I would have…”*
*“Women’ll be the death of him…”*
*“Mark, wake up—don’t leave me,”*—Lucy’s voice.
*“Don’t leave *us*,”*—Emily’s whisper.
*“Daddy, read me a story…”*—Lottie’s tears.
He fought to open his eyes.
*“God, am I dying? I’m only thirty-two! I’ll fix everything—just let me live!”*
*“Really? No more lies? You’ll leave Lucy? You want to live that badly?”* A quiet voice, clear above the rest.
*“Yes! I promise! Who—who are you?”*
*“You can’t see me. You’d go blind.”*
*“I’m not ready—I have a daughter!”*
Suddenly, air tore into his lungs. Pain. Life.
*“Doctor—he’s awake!”*
Light blinded him. Emily leaned over, relief in her eyes.
Lucy visited twice, lingering in corners, whispering apologies before fleeing.
Two weeks later, he went home. He revelled in bedtime stories with Lottie, in Emily’s steady presence. *How could I have wanted more?*
Then, one evening, his phone buzzed:
*“I miss you. When will I see you?”*
*“I can’t talk now,”* he murmured.
*“Is she there?”* Lucy understood. *“I just… I’m waiting.”*
He should have ended it. But habit won.
*“Tomorrow.”*
*“Work?”* Emily appeared, towel wrapped around her hair.
*“Yeah. Asking when I’m back.”*
*One last time*, he told himself. *I’ll end it properly.*
Then—that pain again. Darkness. A warning?
He grabbed his phone: *“I’m not coming. Ever.”* Sent. Blocked.
Easy. Simple.
Because he wanted to live.
