I Think the Love Has Faded — “You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole department,” he said, handing her a bunch of daisies from the flower stall by the tube. Anna laughed, accepting the flowers. The daisies smelled of summer and something indescribably right. Dmitry looked at her like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was her. Their first date was in Hyde Park. Dmitry brought along a blanket, a flask of tea, and homemade sandwiches his mum had made. They sat on the grass until dark. Anna remembered the way he laughed, head thrown back. How he touched her hand as if by accident, and looked at her as if she was the only person in all of London. Three months in, he took her to a little indie cinema to watch a French comedy she didn’t really understand, but she laughed with him all the same. Six months later, he introduced her to his parents. A year on—he asked her to move in. “We’re always together anyway,” Dmitry said, gently running his fingers through her hair. “Why pay for two flats?” Anna said yes. Not for the money, of course. Just because with him, the world made sense. Their rented one-bed flat smelled of Sunday roast dinners and freshly washed sheets. Anna learned to make his favourite cottage pie, exactly the way his mum did. In the evenings, Dmitry read aloud articles from The Economist and The Times. He dreamt of running his own business. Anna listenend, propped on her hand, believing every word. They planned their future. First—a deposit. Then—their own home. After that—a new car. Children, obviously: a son and a daughter. “We’ve got plenty of time,” Dmitry would say, kissing the top of her head. Anna would nod. With him, she felt invincible. …Fifteen years together brought routines, little traditions, and stuff—so much stuff. They had a nice flat with a view over the green, a 20-year mortgage they worked hard to pay off early, sacrificing holidays and restaurants. A silver Toyota in the drive—Dmitry chose it, haggled for it, and polished the bonnet to a shine every Saturday. There was pride—a warm, rising wave. They’d achieved everything on their own. No handouts from parents, no lucky breaks. Just hard work, saving, perseverance. Anna never complained. Not even when she was so tired she fell asleep on the tube and woke up at the end of the line. Not even when she wanted to pack it all in and fly away somewhere sunny. They were a team. That’s what Dmitry always said, and Anna believed him. His happiness always came first. Anna learned that rule by heart, wove it into her very DNA. Rough day at work? She’d make a special dinner and a pot of tea and listen to him. Trouble with his boss? She’d stroke his hair and whisper everything would be alright. Self-doubt? She’d find the right words, pull him out of his slump. “You’re my harbour, my anchor, my rock,” Dmitry would say. Anna would smile. What could be better than being someone’s anchor? There were tough times. The first, five years in—the company Dmitry worked for went bust. He sat at home, scrolling job listings and sinking into gloom. The second was worse. Some colleagues set him up, and not only did he lose his job, he got hit with a big bill. They had to sell the car to pay it. Anna never blamed him. Not a word, not even a look. She took on more freelance work, stayed up late, scrimped every penny. All she cared about was how he was coping. Would he break? Would he lose faith in himself? …Dmitry pulled through. Landed an even better job. They bought another silver Toyota. Life went back to normal. A year ago, they were sitting in the kitchen when Anna finally voiced what she’d been quietly thinking for ages: “Maybe it’s time? I’m not twenty anymore. If we keep waiting…” Dmitry nodded. Serious, thoughtful. “Let’s start getting ready.” Anna held her breath. So many years of dreaming, postponing, waiting for the right moment. Now it was here. She’d imagined it all a thousand times: tiny hands gripping hers, the smell of baby powder, first steps across their flat, Dmitry reading bedtime stories. A child. Their child. At last. Everything changed at once. Anna revamped her diet, her routine, cut back on stress. Saw doctors, took her vitamins, shifted career plans—even as her boss offered her a huge promotion. “Are you sure?” her manager asked, peering over her glasses. “A chance like this…” But Anna was sure. The promotion meant late nights, travel, pressure—not ideal for starting a family. “I’ll transfer to the branch near home instead,” Anna said. The manager just shrugged. The branch was a fifteen-minute walk around the corner. The work—dull, routine, no prospects. But she could leave on time and stop thinking about it come Friday. Anna settled in fast. The new colleagues were nice enough, if unambitious. She made her own packed lunches, took walks at lunchtime, was in bed by midnight—all for the baby they hoped for, all for their family. The chill crept in slowly. Anna didn’t notice at first. Dmitry was working a lot, tired—that happened, right? But he stopped asking about her day. Stopped hugging her goodnight. Stopped looking at her the way he did when she was the most beautiful girl at uni. The flat got quiet. Wrong kind of quiet. They used to chat for hours—about work, plans, silly things. Now Dmitry scrolled on his phone every evening, gave short answers, turned his back to sleep. Anna would lie next to him, staring at the ceiling. Between them—a gulf, half the width of a mattress. Intimacy vanished. Two weeks, three, a month. Anna lost count. Dmitry always had an excuse: “I’m just shattered. Tomorrow, alright?” Tomorrow never came. One night, Anna just asked. She blocked his way to the bathroom. “What’s going on? Please, honestly.” Dmitry looked past her, at the doorframe. “Everything’s fine.” “It’s not.” “You’re overthinking. It’ll pass.” He sidestepped her, locked himself in the bathroom. Water started running. Anna stood in the hallway, clutching her chest where it hurt—dull, persistent, constant. She lasted another month. Then she couldn’t bear it any longer. “Do you love me?” she asked, straight out. A pause. A long, awful pause. “I… don’t know what I feel for you.” Anna sat on the sofa. “You don’t know?” Dmitry finally looked her in the eye. There was emptiness. Confusion. None of the fire from fifteen years ago. “I think the love’s gone. Has been for ages. I kept quiet because I didn’t want to hurt you.” Anna realised she’d been living in this hell for months, desperate for an explanation. Maybe it’s work. Midlife crisis. Just a bad patch. But no—he simply stopped loving her. And said nothing while she planned their future, gave up her promotion, prepared herself for motherhood. The decision came suddenly. No more “maybe,” no more “give it time.” Enough. “I’m filing for divorce.” Dmitry turned pale. Anna saw his Adam’s apple twitch. “Wait. Don’t go so fast. We can try—” “Try what?” “Let’s have the baby, yeah? Maybe a child will bring us together. People say kids do that.” Anna laughed bitterly. “A baby will just make things worse. You don’t love me. Why have a child just to end up divorcing with a newborn?” Dmitry said nothing. There was nothing left to say. Anna left that day. Packed a bag of essentials and moved in with a friend. Filed for divorce a week later, when her hands finally stopped trembling. Sorting out the house and car would take ages. Fifteen years of stuff to split. Life, measured out in square feet and horsepower. Anna listened to the lawyer, taking notes, doing her best not to think about how their life had boiled down to a spreadsheet. Soon, she found a little flat to rent. She learned to cook for one, watch Netflix without commentary, stretch out in bed all by herself. The waves of grief broke at night. She’d bury her face in the pillow and remember: daisies from the market, picnics in Hyde Park, his laughter, his arms, his voice telling her, “You’re my anchor.” The pain was unbearable—fifteen years doesn’t go out with the rubbish. But through the pain came something else: relief. The sense that it was right. She’d stopped in time, before tying herself to someone with a child, before getting stuck in a marriage for the sake of keeping up appearances. Thirty-two years old. Her whole life ahead. Is it terrifying? Completely. But she’ll make it through—there’s no other way. I Think the Love Has Faded: Fifteen Years Together, a Dreamed-of Family, and the Courage to Walk Away in Search of Happiness

I think the love is gone.

Youre the most beautiful girl in this entire department, hed said that day, offering her a haphazard bouquet of daisies from the stand by the High Street station.

Emily had laughed as she took the flowers, the scent reminding her of summer days and something ineffably right. Simon stood in front of her with the confident gaze of a man absolutely certain of his desires. And what he wanted was her.

Their first date was under an ancient oak in Hyde Park. Simon brought a checked blanket and a battered flask of tea, along with sandwiches his mum had made. They sat in the grass until twilight. Emily remembered the sound of his laughter as he tipped his head back, the way his hand brushed her fingersdeliberately nonchalant. The way he looked at her as if, out of everyone in London, she was the only one.

Three months later, he took her to the Curzon Cinema for a French comedy she didnt understand, but she laughed with him, helpless with joy. In six months, she met his parents. After a year, he asked her to move in.

We spend every night together anyway, Simon said, fingers twining gently through her hair. Why shell out for two flats?

Emily agreed. Not for the money, of course. With him, everything made sense.

Their rented one-bed in Islington smelled of roast dinners on Sundays and crisp, freshly-washed linen. Emily learned to cook his favourite meatballsjust the way his mother did, with parsley and a hint of garlic. Each evening, Simon would read aloud to her from the business section of The Times, dreaming aloud of having his own company one day. Emily would listen, cheeks propped in her hands, believing every word.

They spun plans together. First, save for a deposit. Then, their own flat. After thata car. Children, obviously. A boy and a girl.

Weve got all the time in the world, Simon would whisper, pressing a kiss to her head.

Emily nodded. With him, she felt invincible.

Fifteen years passed, filled with habits, possessions, and little rituals. They bought a two-bedroom in a leafy suburb, a place with a view over the common. Theyd chosen the twenty-year mortgage over holidays or evenings out. In the front drive rested a silvery Ford Simon had haggled for himself, buffing its bonnet every Saturday until it gleamed.

A throbbing pride warmed Emily. Theyd built everything from scratchno help from parents, no lucky chances. Just hard work, saving, grit.

She never complained. Even when shattered after work, dozing off on the Northern line and waking at the last stop. Even when she ached to drop everything and vanish off to the seaside. They were a team. Thats what Simon always told her. And Emily believed.

His comfort always came first. Emily had learnt it by heart until it felt stitched into her bones. Bad day? She fixed dinner, poured tea, and listened. Trouble at work? She stroked his hair, quietly reassuring him things would be alright. Doubt? She found words to pull him back up.

Youre my anchor, my home, Simon would murmur.

Emily smiled. To be someones anchorwasnt that happiness?

There were hard patches. The first time, after five years together: the company Simon worked for folded. He spent three months at home, sifting job adverts, growing gloomier.

The next was worse. Backstabbed by a colleague, Simon lost his job and owed a hefty sum. They sold the car to pay it off.

Emily never blamed him. Not with a word or a look. She picked up extra projects, worked late nights, and cut back on everything for herself. Her only worry was Simonhow he would cope. Whether hed break, or lose faith in himself.

In time, Simon rallied. He found something better, and soon enough, they bought another silver Ford. Life fell back into place.

A year ago, at their kitchen table, Emily voiced what shed kept secret for so long:

Maybe its time? Im not getting any younger. If we keep delaying

Simon nodded, serious and measured.

Lets get ready.

Emily held her breath. Years of waiting, dreaming, postponingall leading up to this moment.

She imagined it over and over: tiny hands clutching hers, the scent of baby powder, first steps down the hallway. Simon reading stories in a low voice before bed.

A child. Their child. Finally.

Changes came quickly. Emily overhauled her diet, routine, exercise. Booked appointments, took supplements, put work ambitions asideeven as a promotion loomed.

Are you sure? her manager asked, peering above her glasses. Opportunities like this dont come twice.

Emily was sure. The position meant travel, long hours, endless pressurenot ideal for a pregnancy.

Id rather transfer to the local office, she replied.

Her manager shrugged.

The branch was fifteen minutes from home. The work was dull, routine, and offered little hope for advancement. But Emily left at six, with weekends her own.

She settled in quickly. The new colleagues were pleasant, if complacent. Emily packed her own lunches, strolled the nearby park at breaks, and went to bed before midnight. Everything for the baby. Everything for their family.

But the chill crept in, inch by inch. At first, Emily paid it no mind. Simon was busy, tired. It happened.

He stopped asking about her day. Stopped hugging her goodnight. Stopped looking at her the way he had, back when he called her the most beautiful girl in the faculty.

Their home grew quietunnaturally so. In the past, theyd lost hours chattingabout work, plans, silly nonsense. Now Simon sat scrolling on his phone each night, answering in monosyllables, turning away in bed to face the wall.

Emily lay beside him, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Between them stretched a gulf as wide as the width of their mattress.

The closeness vanished, first for two weeks, then three, then a month. Emily lost count. There were always new excuses:

Im just shattered. Lets wait until tomorrow.

Tomorrow never arrived.

She finally asked outright. One evening, summoning her courage, she blocked his way to the bathroom.

Whats going on? Be honest.

Simon avoided her eyes, staring somewhere above her head.

Its fine.
No, its not.
Youre imagining things. Its just a phase. Itll pass.

He steered around her and shut himself in the bathroom. The sound of running water behind the door.

Emily stood in the hall, palm pressed to her aching chest.

She managed to hold out another month. Then, unable to stand it, she asked plainly:

Do you love me?

A pause. Awful. Endless.

I dont know what I feel for you.

Emily sunk onto the sofa.

You dont know?

At last, Simon met her gaze. His eyes were empty, adriftnone of that old fire from fifteen years before.

I think the loves gone. Has been, for a while. I kept quietdidnt want to hurt you.

Emilys mind reeled. Shed spent months in this hell, searching for answers, weighing every word, believing it was stress, or a midlife crisis, or just a temporary bleakness. All the while, hed simply stopped loving her, and said nothingwhile she planned for their future, gave up her career, readied herself for motherhood.

The decision came as if by instinct. No more maybe, no more what if it gets better, or lets wait. Enough.

Im filing for divorce.

Simon blanched. Emily watched his throat bob with a swallow.

Wait, dont just rush into this. We can try
Try?
Lets have a baby. Maybe a baby will fix it. People say kids bring couples together.

Emilys laugh was bitter, raw.

A baby would only make things worse. You dont love me. Why should we have a childfor what? To split up with an infant in tow?

Simon fell silent. There was nothing left to say.

Emily left that same day. She threw some essentials in a bag and moved into a room with an old friend. Filed the divorce papers a week later, once her hands stopped shaking.

The split would take months: the flat, the car, fifteen years of shared things. The solicitor droned on about valuations and shares and negotiations. Emily made notes and tried not to think about how their lives were now measured in square feet and horsepower.

Soon, she found a one-bed to rent. Emily learnt how to exist alone. To cook for one. To watch telly in the quiet. To stretch out and sleep in a whole bed herself.

The nights could be unbearable. Shed curl over her pillow and remember: daisies from a street vendor. Picnic blankets in Hyde Park. His laughter, his hands, his voice whispering, Youre my anchor.

The pain was relentless. Fifteen years dont simply vanish from your heart like so much rubbish sent to the tip.

But there was something growing through the hurtrelief, and an odd sense of rightness. Shed stopped in time. She hadnt tied herself to him with a child, hadnt condemned herself to an empty marriage for the sake of keeping the family together.

Thirty-two. A whole life ahead of her.

Is she afraid? Terrified.

But shell be alright. She simply has no other choice.