**Tomorrow’s Dawn**
Emily had spent five years with James, yet no proposal had come. She was an impeccable homemaker, tidy and affectionate. But lately, his warmth had faded—he retreated to the TV after dinner, brushing off her tenderness with excuses of exhaustion.
“Claire,” Emily confided in her sister, “it’s been two months of this. What’s wrong?”
“Are you even sharing a bed?” Claire asked.
“Rarely. Nothing helps—candlelit dinners, pies… He’s just sour. Has he fallen out of love?”
“Could there be someone else?”
“He comes home straight after work. But what if…?”
“Talk to him,” Claire urged. “You’re not married. He might think he’s free to wander.”
That evening, Emily confronted him: “If I’m a burden, leave. I won’t stop you, even if I still care.”
James stiffened, watching her tears fall. “Dramatics already?” He grabbed a duffel bag, shoving ironed shirts inside. Emily stood thunderstruck as he headed for the door.
“Five years… and nothing to say?” she cried.
“We’re done. No love left. You’re… yesterday’s news,” he replied coldly, vanishing down the stairs.
The words choked her. *Yesterday’s news*. Five years, discarded like a worn dress. She collapsed, feverish and shattered. Claire rallied her: “Enough moping! Let’s redecorate—new life, new start.”
They repainted walls, hung fresh curtains, and swapped kitchenware. Emily joined a gym, swam laps, and accompanied Claire to West End plays. At work, promotions followed—she thrived.
Then came Oliver, a bashful local poet publishing verses in her magazine. Gaunt, bespectacled, in a threadbare blazer, he lingered after submissions. One evening, he stammered an invitation: “Your opinion matters, Emily. You’re brilliant… and kind.”
Over coffee, his lyrical wit charmed her. “How do you weave humor into such depth?” she marveled.
“I… I’m not here just for publications,” he admitted, kissing her palm. “You’re extraordinary.”
A month later, on Valentine’s Day, Emily set a festive table, humming to Queen. A knock interrupted—James stood there, clutching roses.
“You’ve… blossomed,” he said, peering past her.
“Leave. I’m expecting someone.”
“Who? Your *tomorrow’s dawn*?” he sneered.
As James slunk downstairs, Oliver bounded up with mimosa blooms. Emily’s laughter echoed behind the slammed door.
James, now adrift between fleeting flings and whisky, scowled. *Pathetic*. But Emily and Oliver wed in a registry office, colleagues toasting with champagne.
“Sometimes loss brings gain,” Claire whispered at the reception. “He adores you.”
A year later, their son arrived. Oliver’s poetry brimmed with sunlit joy. Meanwhile, James, nursing a pint in a pub, muttered, “Plenty of fish…” But the words rang hollow as he eyed his hollow reflection.
