The Love That Never Was
The bus paused at a crossroads in the heart of a small English town when Thomas caught sight of her lips. The woman brushed a dandelion fluff from her sleeve. That delicate motion, as if her lips were kissing the breeze, struck him like sunlight piercing a dim room.
“You’ll be my wife,” he blurted to the stranger, not understanding why her hazel eyes suddenly reflected his entire life.
She turned slowly, her gaze not fearful but cold, as if assessing not a man but a cracked canvas.
“You’re mad.”
“I’ll be the best husband. Say yes.”
She laughed, revealing slightly crooked teeth.
“Why would I? I don’t know you.”
“Then let’s fix that. Meet me again.” He bowed theatrically, not letting her refuse. “Thomas, an engineer with big plans. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Emma,” she replied, as if in a daze. “An artist. Maybe famous, maybe not.”
“Perfect pair—a man of logic and a dreamer,” he grinned. “We’ll balance each other.”
“No, thank you,” she cut in. “I’m already complete.”
“That’s why I love you,” Thomas said, feeling his pulse quicken. “Tomorrow at eight, by the fountain in the park. I’ll give you an unforgettable evening.”
Emma didn’t like him. She had no intention of going. But the next morning, bragging to her friend, she recounted how a stranger had proposed, promising eternal love.
“And you said no?” her friend gasped. “Are you daft? When someone falls head over heels, you milk it! He might be loaded. Fancy a free night out?”
“He’s waiting tonight,” Emma shrugged. “Fancy joining? See how generous he is. I’ll die of boredom alone.”
“Absolutely, let’s go!”
One evening wasn’t the end. Thomas clung to them like a shadow, sparing no expense—cinema tickets, cosy cafés, expensive paints, quality brushes. A seasoned engineer at a tech firm, he could afford it.
Emma made no secret of her indifference, openly admitting she was killing time until real love came along. Someone else. In short, she was doing him a favour.
Thomas watched her like a doting parent, repeating after every date:
“You’ll be my wife.”
She laughed. Who’d want a wife eyeing other men? But Thomas didn’t relent. He didn’t woo—he laid siege.
He waited after lectures, took her to galleries, bought jewellery, memorised her habits. He sniffed out her admirers and “dealt” with them (one “accidentally” got roughed up in an alley). He even called her mother: “Your daughter deserves better than these boys.”
Emma fumed, shouting she wasn’t his property, that it was the 21st century. Out of spite, she dated classmates. A penniless art student caught her eye. A wealthy literature major looked down his nose. A musician from down the street loved fiercely—for a week—before chasing another.
After each heartbreak, Thomas materialised like a spectre:
“Told you they weren’t right.”
Her mother swiftly sided with him. When Emma rebelled and cut contact, she sighed, “You’re being foolish. Marriage isn’t about passion. He loves you—you’ll never want for anything.”
“Jazz tonight,” he said, handing her tickets as she readied for a date.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” he said a week later when that suitor vanished.
Emma never asked how he arranged it. Part of her was touched by his obsession—like an old novel where the heroine is worth fighting for.
“Marry me,” he said for the hundredth time, offering a sprig of hawthorn, her favourite. “I’ve bought land. We’ll build a house—you’ll have a studio.”
“I don’t love you,” she exhaled. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t tried. I’ll make you love me.”
Suddenly, she felt weary—not of him, but of herself. Of chasing a man who, by twenty-six, she suspected didn’t exist. Every “option” crumbled like sand. Maybe her mother was right.
“Fine,” she said. His face lit up as if he’d seen dawn after a long night.
He was the perfect husband. Flowers, no reproaches, shelving built to her sketches, carrying her proudly before guests. But the bedroom became duty (“Come here, love, I’ve missed you”). No children came.
Emma didn’t live. She endured his love. She flinched at sudden kisses on her neck while chopping salad.
Friends envied her; she wanted to scream, “Take him!” Their marriage was a stage where she played the happy wife.
They never argued—there was nothing to argue about. Once, Emma hurled her mother-in-law’s figurine at the wall. Thomas didn’t blink.
“Don’t worry, love. We’ll glue it.”
She knew then: he’d never let go. She bought a train ticket, packed a bag. But Thomas brought home the Siamese kitten she’d always wanted:
“You’ve been so down… Maybe he’ll help?”
Emma stayed.
Years later, he found the ticket tucked in a book. At dinner, he asked:
“Why are you still here? If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Because…” She hesitated. “Loneliness scares me more.”
Thomas smiled, mistaking it for love.
But Emma knew the truth: she’d grown used to his devotion, afraid he was the only one who’d ever love her.
