The weight of an uneasy conversation loomed before her.
Outside the window, car lights flickered past while pedestrians hurried along their way, but Edward remained alone with his thoughts. Today, he felt particularly downcast, though nothing in his outward demeanour betrayed it.
His mind lingered on Lydia. Their relationship had spanned several years, and at first, everything had seemed perfect. He had done all he could to make her happy—lavishing her with costly gifts, arranging romantic dinners, ensuring he was always attentive and considerate. Yet lately, he had begun to sense a shift. Lydia had grown distant, often lost in her own thoughts, their conversations dwindling into rare, brief exchanges.
Edward struggled to understand what had gone wrong. Had he done something amiss? Or perhaps she had simply tired of his ceaseless devotion? No answers presented themselves, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.
He recalled the night they had first met—at one of those London soirées where he often passed his free evenings. Lydia had caught his eye immediately, radiant with a quiet confidence unlike any other woman he had known. She had her own perspectives, her own passions. Intrigued, he had sought to know her better, and soon, they were courting.
In the beginning, everything had been splendid. They spent countless hours together—travelling, attending plays, exploring the city. Edward cherished every moment, certain their love was deepening. But slowly, he noticed the change. Her smiles grew scarce, her responses to his calls and letters delayed. Sometimes, he wondered if she merely tolerated his presence.
The thought stung, but he masked his unease, redoubling his efforts to rekindle what once had been. Yet whenever he broached the subject, Lydia would sidestep the conversation, pleading fatigue or pressing engagements.
Tonight had been especially difficult. Lydia had left again to meet her friends, leaving him alone. He understood the need for space, yet his heart ached all the same. He felt her slipping away, powerless to stop it.
The torment of uncertainty wore on him. He loved her deeply, wanted only her happiness, yet feared his devotion might be wasted. Some part of him still hoped she would one day open her heart and tell him what truly troubled her. Until then, he could only wait.
Meanwhile, Lydia sat in a quiet corner of a café, the usual evening bustle of London humming around her. She could have been at Edward’s side—her beau, who, by all accounts, was everything a woman might desire: handsome, clever, unfailingly kind. Yet somehow, she felt only emptiness.
It had begun years ago when they first met at a friend’s gathering. Edward had drawn her in effortlessly—charming, self-assured, the very image of a man who knew his worth. She had been flattered by his attention at first.
She remembered the moment their eyes had met across the crowded room. Back then, she had believed love to be sudden, fiery—but with Edward, it had been steady, methodical, almost practical. Their courtship unfolded as though by design—long walks, tender gestures, thoughtful gifts. On paper, it was perfect. Yet within her, something had remained unfulfilled.
She appreciated his respect for her opinions, his readiness to solve her troubles, his steadiness in difficult times. Wasn’t mutual understanding the foundation of lasting companionship? Love, surely, would follow in time.
Except it hadn’t. Instead, irritation had crept in. Every kindness from Edward now rang hollow—even his smile unsettled her. And worse still, her mind kept drifting to another.
Thomas. Her childhood friend, awkward, perpetually clumsy, forever stumbling into absurd misadventures. She had dismissed him as nothing more than a confidant—someone to laugh with, to lean on. Yet it was his face she pictured most, his voice she recalled before sleep. Thomas had adored her for years, though she had never allowed herself to consider it seriously. He was merely a friend… wasn’t he?
Lydia pressed her fingers to her temples. Every kindness from Edward now felt suffocating. His devotion had become a weight.
She knew she had to speak to him—to admit their courtship had run its course. But the thought of confessing her feelings for another filled her with shame. How could she have been so blind? How had she mistaken companionship for love?
A tear escaped, and she brushed it away quickly, unwilling to draw notice. She despised her own frailty, resenting the mess she had made of her heart. Still, she resolved to set things right—late as it was, painful as it would be.
Rising from the table, Lydia stepped out into the London evening. A difficult conversation awaited her, and she knew her life would never be the same afterward. Yet perhaps, at long last, it might lead her to the happiness she had unwittingly cast aside.
