June 12th
I never expected to be packing my things today. The sound of the suitcase zipper startled James as he walked in.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked, frowning at the half-filled bag.
My fingers lingered over the row of books on the shelf—the ones he’d dismissively called “sentimental nonsense” whenever I reached for them.
“Do you remember promising to teach me about wines?”
He shrugged. “So?”
“So nothing,” I said flatly, tossing the flat key onto the table. “Just like always.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it!” he protested. “I’ve just been busy.”
“And I’ve got my own life, James. I’m tired of waiting for you to be part of it.”
I used to dream of love straight out of novels—the kind where you meet someone and just *know*. Fireworks, stolen glances, whispered promises. The kind where the only obstacles are fate or bad luck, not the person beside you.
“Darling, love at first sight is for fairy tales,” Mum used to say. “Real love needs reasons. Plural.”
I’d roll my eyes. “Reasons? That’s not love, that’s just settling!”
“You don’t love someone for no reason at all. Even kittens—adorable as they are—need training if they ruin your slippers. And a man? You’ll want someone who’s there for you, who *chooses* you. Pretty eyes might catch your attention, but they won’t keep it.”
She was right. But I didn’t know that then.
I chased after the idea of perfection, ignoring the quiet, steady ones who might’ve deserved a chance. Until one evening at my favourite pub, a new bartender appeared—tall, dark-eyed, with a voice like velvet. When he poured me a glass of red and murmured about hints of blackberry and oak, my heart skipped.
I fell. Hard. Irrevocably. Or so I thought.
“He’s different,” I insisted to my best mate. “Passionate, brilliant—not like anyone else.”
“He’s a bartender, Emily. And a bit full of himself.”
But I wasn’t listening. Not when he was rude to my parents. Not when he blew his first paycheck in months on a new guitar instead of helping with rent. Not even when I was juggling two jobs to keep us afloat while he gamed all day.
I endured. I believed. Because with him, it was electric—those fleeting moments of intensity that felt like proof of something *real*.
But the spark faded fast. James wasn’t interested in building anything. He wanted love without effort—someone to feed his dreams, soothe his ego, pick up the pieces. But commitment? Responsibility? That wasn’t part of his story.
I packed in silence. Rain tapped against the window. My chest ached, heavy with regret.
A year ago, I’d tucked the receipt from our first date into my purse. He’d promised it was just the beginning. Turned out, it was the beginning of the end.
“I was wrong,” I said to the empty room. “I mistook infatuation for love. Now I know—you don’t love someone ‘just because.’ You love them because they *deserve* it.”
When I showed up at my parents’ doorstep, Mum just nodded.
“Took you long enough. Welcome back, grown-up girl.” She handed me a mug. “Love isn’t butterflies. It’s being seen. Heard. Chosen. And choosing back.”
I sipped my tea—hot, strong, no longer diluted by excuses. For the first time in years, I breathed easy.
Sometimes, to know what love *is*, you have to learn what it isn’t first.
