In a small town nestled between gloomy pine forests and grey fields, where the wind chased dry leaves down the streets, life moved slowly, like a river winding through lowlands. Near the end of his workday, William’s phone rang—a tune his girlfriend, Charlotte, had chosen—shattering the silence. He answered, hearing her voice:
“William, I’m at the salon. Come pick me up, you know where.”
“Alright, I’ll be there soon,” he replied shortly before ending the call.
William knew Charlotte spent at least two hours at the salon, so he didn’t rush. After work, he parked near the salon and, to kill time, stepped into a nearby café.
*She’ll call when she’s done,* he thought, settling at a table. A waiter took his order immediately.
William ate, scrolled through the news, watched a few videos, but Charlotte still hadn’t called. *I wonder how much she’ll spend today,* he mused. Not that she paid—her father, a wealthy businessman, footed the bill. Charlotte never spared expense.
They’d been together seven months, sometimes staying in his modest flat. But when his place felt too cramped, she retreated to her parents’ lavish country estate. An only child, she lacked for nothing. She’d introduced William to her parents, but her mother, Evelyn, looked down on him. A simple programmer, 27—what could he offer? Charlotte must have convinced her mother not to interfere, so she stayed cold but civil. William always felt out of place there.
He’d begun to realize Charlotte wasn’t the girl he’d dreamed of. Yet the thought of marriage lingered, especially after her father’s words: *”Make my daughter happy, and I’ll set you up. Disappoint her, and you’ll regret it.”* The message was clear.
Charlotte was capricious but stunningly beautiful. William couldn’t fathom why she needed hours at the salon—she was flawless without it. Smart, witty, yet arrogant and spoiled by her father’s money. The night before, she’d announced:
“William, we’re flying to the Maldives in ten days. Dad’s paying. I need a break.”
“From what? You don’t even work,” he’d retorted.
“Dad will sort your work, don’t worry.”
Her words grated. Their relationship grew more strained by the day. William sensed they were from different worlds, yet he still planned to propose. Lost in thought over coffee, a voice startled him:
“William? That you?” A man across the room grinned like an old friend.
“James?” William stood, recognizing his childhood mate. “I can’t believe it! Twelve years?”
“You’ve filled out, mate!” James clapped his shoulder. “Look proper grown now.”
“And you’re no lad anymore,” William laughed. “What brings you here?”
“Waiting for my sister, Emily. She’s at the Royal Academy, final year. There’s a concert tonight, but classical’s not my thing, so I ducked in here,” James said with a smile.
“Emily? How is she?” William’s interest sparked.
“A proper talent! Grew up in a village, got into the Academy on merit—no connections,” James said proudly.
“I’ve got to see her!” William exclaimed.
“I’ll call her in half an hour. Fancy joining us? You alone?”
“Waiting for Charlotte, my fiancée. She’s at the salon, should be done soon.”
“Brilliant, Emily and I will swing by,” James promised before leaving.
William drifted into memories. Summers at his gran’s village, where James and Emily lived. Their garden with apple trees, the lake, the river. They’d fished, cooked over fires, sung to guitar tunes. Emily, a slender girl with dark braids, had been his first crush. *Wonder what she’s like now?* he mused, unaware he was smiling.
“Smiling at nothing’s daft,” Charlotte’s voice cut in.
“Finally,” William studied her, struggling to spot changes from three salon hours.
“Well? How do I look?” she simpered.
“Fine,” he said.
“*Fine*?” she huffed. “Do you know what this manicure and facial cost? I’m radiant, admit it!”
“As always,” William nodded, avoiding argument.
“Let’s go to mine. Guests are waiting,” she declared.
“Can’t. Made plans with old friends. They’ll be here soon.”
Charlotte pouted, primed for a scene, but James and Emily entered. Emily rushed to hug William:
“William! Ages! You’ve turned into a proper looker!”
He froze, struck by her beauty—light, graceful, with warm hazel eyes. He didn’t want to let go, but Charlotte’s icy tone sliced in:
“Hello.”
“This is Charlotte, my fiancée,” William recovered. “James and Emily.”
“Alright, love?” James grinned.
The trio reminisced while Charlotte sat silent, pointedly ignoring them. William recalled summers, apple trees, the lake.
“Better under a Maldives umbrella,” Charlotte interjected. “Dad’s pool’s bigger than your puddle.”
“Fish still bite there?” James quipped.
“At the restaurants *I* dine at,” she snipped.
The chat died. Emily offered:
“William, come visit us in the village.”
“Definitely,” he said, glancing at Charlotte. “This weekend.”
Charlotte sniffed. “Fine, I’ll endure this backwater.”
“Don’t bother,” William frowned. “It’s bugs, woods, a lake. You’d wilt.”
“I’ll bring mineral water. Doubt yours is clean,” she muttered.
“And a microwave bio-loo,” he shot back.
The village welcomed them warmly. A feast under the apple tree, barbecue sizzling. William felt alive, like a boy again. Charlotte whined:
“William, the grass stabs my legs. The meat smells odd. A bug bit me! Sun’s in my eyes!”
“Enough, Charlotte,” he snapped. “Enjoy nature or go inside.”
“It’s stuffy,” she grumbled but fled the mosquitoes.
By the lake, rod in hand, William asked:
“Emily, got a bloke?”
“No, split ages ago. Why?” she smiled.
“You’re just… lovely. Effortless,” he blurted.
“And talented,” James added. “Knitwear, dumplings—proper domestic goddess.”
“Unlike your missus, who spins yarns but can’t cook,” Emily teased.
“True,” William admitted, surprising himself. “No home-cooked meals—just posh takeaway.”
“Never mind, you’ll learn,” James clapped his back.
William stayed quiet, picturing a life with Charlotte—cold, hollow. On the drive back, she declared:
“Never taking me to that dump again. Maldives next week.”
“I’m not going,” he said flatly.
“Then you’ll lose me,” she threatened.
“So be it,” he held firm.
Silence choked the car. William thought: *Apple trees and fishing suits me better. I won’t marry Charlotte. Her father’s threats mean nothing; her mother never wanted me.*
Dropping her home, he met her glare:
“Last chance. Coming?”
“No. The village’s where I belong. We want different things.”
“Goodbye,” she spat, vanishing inside.
William exhaled, relief washing over him. He dialed:
“Emily, I’ll be there in two days. We’ll talk.”
“Alone?” she asked softly.
“Of course,” he said, heart lifting.
“I’ll wait,” she murmured.
His phone rang—Charlotte’s father. William declined the call, refusing to let shadows darken the light.
**Different Paths**
Some roads lead to gold, others to joy. Choose wisely.
