Katie sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the ring with its tiny stone—another “just because” gift from Victor. Once, those little surprises had made her heart race. Now, they just left a numb ache in her chest. Nothing felt worse than sharing a life with someone she couldn’t love.
They’d met at university. Victor had always been *that* friend—the steady, quiet one, always there when she needed him. She’d never taken him seriously, not until he started pursuing her. Patiently. Relentlessly. She’d even laughed about it with her mates over drinks.
But he never gave up.
Eventually, they started dating. Then he moved in. It all happened so naturally—except for the one thing that never did: real, aching love.
Victor was content. He made her chamomile tea, did the washing up, ironed her dresses. Meanwhile, the sound of his breathing grated on her nerves. He seemed weak to her, spineless, dull.
Her friends told her she was lucky—men like that were rare. But behind her back, they whispered that she didn’t deserve him, that she was too cold, too sharp.
Still, he endured. Even when she flirted with his colleagues. Even when she pushed him away. Even when, one night, she snapped, “Don’t wait up. I’m leaving. I’m sick of you.”
He stood in the doorway, pale, his eyes empty. And he didn’t stop her.
Two weeks later, Katie met James—arrogant, magnetic. She’d been drunk, dancing on the bar when he slid into the seat beside her. “In a year,” he said quietly, “you’ll regret throwing away someone who loved you.”
She laughed.
With James, it was like a film—fancy dinners, sleepless nights, lavish gifts. Until the cold stares started. The jabs at her laugh, her clothes. Then the cheating. And he didn’t even apologise. “What did you expect? I never made promises.”
She stumbled out into the rain. Dialled Victor’s number. Hung up before it rang.
At home, she dug out old photos—them, smiling. His hands on her shoulders, her gaze soft. Or was it just pretending?
Days later, she collapsed. Her heart gave out. In the hospital, she saw something unfamiliar in Victor’s eyes—not love. Indifference.
“Why did you come?” she whispered.
“Force of habit.”
He left chamomile flowers—the ones she’d once preferred over roses.
“Why were you so afraid of being loved?” her therapist asked.
Katie swallowed a sob. “Because it’s a risk. Everyone who ever loved me left. My dad walked out when I was seven. Mum said, ‘Don’t trust anyone again.’ So I didn’t. I hid behind sarcasm, bitterness. But Victor… he got through.”
She cried then—really cried—as if finally letting herself feel.
“Do you want him back?”
“More than anything. But he doesn’t want me. And I know why.”
Two years passed.
She spotted Victor in a café. By the window, flipping through a menu, tapping a familiar rhythm on the table.
“Hi,” she said. “Mind if I sit?”
He nodded. Silent. Watching.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. I just wanted to say thank you. For who you were. And I’m sorry I didn’t know how to love you.”
She walked away.
A week later, his text arrived: *”Let’s try again. Slowly.”*
They don’t live together now. They go on dates. Laugh. Sit in silence. Relearn trust.
A magnet on her fridge reads: *”If you want warmth, be the fire.”*
And every *”slowly”* is a step toward something fragile—the possibility of feeling loved again. And remembering she’s capable of it, too.
