Tonight, I found myself lost in thought, the glow of passing cars painting streaks of light against the window. The streets below hummed with the usual evening bustle—people rushing home, laughter spilling from pubs—but I sat alone, weighed down by the conversation I knew I couldn’t avoid any longer.
I thought of Lydia. We’d been together for years, and on paper, everything had been perfect. I’d done all the right things: surprise weekends in the Cotswolds, thoughtful gifts, remembering the little details she loved. But lately, something had shifted. She’d grown distant, her smiles rare, our conversations clipped. I replayed every moment, wondering where I’d gone wrong. Had I smothered her? Or had she simply fallen out of love?
I remembered our first meeting at a friend’s party in London. She’d stood out immediately—not just striking, but self-assured in a way that left me wanting to know her. Lydia wasn’t like anyone I’d dated before. She had opinions, passions, a sharp wit. Falling for her had been effortless. Those early months were golden—weekend trips to Bath, lazy Sundays in bookshops, her laughter filling the quiet corners of my flat. But then, slowly, the warmth faded. Texts went unanswered; plans were postponed. Sometimes, I caught her looking at me as if I were a puzzle she no longer cared to solve.
Tonight stung more than usual. She’d left earlier to meet her friends, brushing off my offer to join. Of course she deserved her space—but the way she’d hesitated before saying goodbye made my chest tight. I loved her. Yet the harder I tried to fix us, the more she slipped away.
—
Lydia sipped her tea, the café around her a blur of chatter and clinking cups. She could’ve been home with Oliver—handsome, kind, the sort of man her mother praised endlessly. On paper, he was everything. So why did she feel so hollow?
It had started years ago, at that party in Notting Hill. Oliver had been magnetic, all charm and confidence, and flattered by his attention, she’d let herself be swept along. Their romance had been comfortable, steady. He remembered anniversaries, planned thoughtful dates, supported her career. But comfort wasn’t love, and lately, every kindness from him grated. His hugs felt suffocating; his jokes fell flat.
Worse still, her thoughts kept drifting to James—her childhood friend, perpetually rumpled, always making her laugh until her sides ached. He’d loved her quietly for years, but she’d dismissed it, convinced friendship was all they’d ever share. Now, his absence ached more than Oliver’s presence ever had.
Tears pricked her eyes. She hated herself for the mess she’d made, for not seeing what was right in front of her. But pretending any longer would be cowardice.
She stood, leaving a few pounds on the table. The conversation ahead would break Oliver’s heart—and hers. But perhaps, at last, it would lead her home.
