A Diary Entry – Different Paths
In a small town nestled between gloomy pine forests and grey fields, where the wind chased dry leaves down empty streets, life moved as slowly as a river through the marsh. Near the end of his workday, Owen’s phone rang—an obnoxiously cheery tune set by his girlfriend, Chelsea, shattering the quiet. He answered, hearing her sharp voice:
*“Owen, I’m at the salon. Come pick me up—you know the one.”*
*“Right, I’ll be there,”* he muttered, hanging up.
Owen knew Chelsea spent at least two hours at the salon, so he took his time. After parking outside, he ducked into a nearby café to wait. *“She’ll call when she’s done,”* he thought, sliding into a booth. A waiter took his order straightaway.
He ate, scrolled through the news, watched a few videos, but Chelsea never called. *“Wonder how much she’s dropping today,”* crossed his mind. Not that she paid—her father, a wealthy property developer, bankrolled everything. Chelsea never spared a thought for the cost.
They’d been dating seven months, sometimes sharing his cramped flat. But when she grew tired of his “squalor,” she’d retreat to her parents’ sprawling estate in Surrey. An only child, she’d never heard the word *no*. Chelsea had introduced Owen to her parents, but her mum, Margaret, looked down her nose at him. *A common IT bloke, 27—what could he possibly offer?* Chelsea must’ve convinced her to hold her tongue, but the frostiness lingered. Owen always felt out of place there.
Lately, he’d begun to realise Chelsea wasn’t the woman he’d imagined. But the thought of marriage nagged at him, especially after her father’s warning: *“Make my daughter happy, and you’ll want for nothing. Break her heart, and you’ll regret it.”* The threat was plain enough.
Chelsea was spoiled but stunning. Owen couldn’t fathom why she needed hours at the salon—she was flawless without it. Clever, witty, but arrogant, cushioned by her father’s money. The night before, she’d announced:
*“Owen, we’re flying to the Maldives in ten days. Dad’s covering it. I need a break.”*
*“From what? You don’t work,”* he’d retorted.
*“Dad’s sorting your leave—don’t fuss.”*
Her words grated. Their relationship was unraveling. Owen knew they were worlds apart, yet he’d still considered proposing. Lost in thought over his tea, a voice startled him:
*“Owen? That you?”* A bloke across the room grinned like an old mate.
*“James?”* Owen stood, recognising his childhood friend. *“Twelve years, has it been?”*
*“Look at you—proper grown now!”* James clapped his shoulder. *“Suits you.”*
*“You’re not a scrawny kid anymore either,”* Owen laughed. *“What brings you here?”*
*“Waiting for my sister, Emily. She’s at the Royal Academy, final year. Concert tonight, but I can’t stand classical—so I popped in here,”* James explained.
*“Emily? How is she?”* Owen’s voice warmed.
*“Brilliant. Proper prodigy. No connections, just raw talent,”* James said proudly.
*“I’d love to see her!”* Owen blurted.
*“I’ll ring her in half an hour. Join us if you’re free. You alone?”*
*“Waiting for Chelsea, my fiancée. She’s at the salon—should be done soon.”*
*“Perfect, Emily and I will swing by,”* James promised before leaving.
Memories flooded Owen: summers at his gran’s in the Cotswolds, where James and Emily lived. Their garden with its apple trees, the pond, the river. Fishing, bonfires, singing to Emily’s guitar. She’d been a skinny girl with dark plaits—his first crush. *“Wonder what she’s like now,”* he mused, smiling to himself.
*“Creepy, smiling at nothing,”* Chelsea’s voice cut in.
*“Finally,”* Owen glanced up, searching for whatever three salon hours had achieved.
*“Well?”* She twirled. *“Do I look incredible?”*
*“Same as usual,”* he said flatly.
*“Same?!”* she scoffed. *“Do you know what this manicure cost? The facial?”*
*“Lovely, as always,”* he conceded to avoid a row.
*“Take me home. Guests are waiting,”* she demanded.
*“Can’t. Meeting up with James and Emily—they’re on their way.”*
Chelsea pouted, primed for a tantrum, but James and Emily walked in. Emily dashed to Owen, hugging him tight.
*“Owen! God, it’s been ages! Look at you!”*
He froze, struck by her beauty—soft, glowing, with warm hazel eyes. He didn’t want to let go, but Chelsea’s icy tone sliced through:
*“Hello.”*
*“This is Chelsea, my fiancée,”* Owen said quickly. *“James and Emily, old friends.”*
*“Alright, gorgeous?”* James winked.
They reminisced, laughing, while Chelsea sulked, scrolling her phone. Owen’s mind drifted to apple blossoms and the pond’s ripples.
*“Rather be under a cabana in the Maldives,”* Chelsea sneered. *“Dad’s pool’s bigger than your puddle.”*
*“Any fish in it?”* James shot back.
*“Only the kind served in Michelin-starred restaurants,”* she snipped.
The chat died. Emily leaned in:
*“Owen, come visit us in the Cotswolds.”*
*“Definitely,”* he said, eyeing Chelsea. *“This weekend.”*
Chelsea huffed, *“Fine, I’ll endure this backwater.”*
*“Don’t bother,”* Owen scowled. *“It’s bugs, mud, nature. You’ll hate it.”*
*“I’ll bring bottled water. God knows what’s in yours.”*
*“And a microwave, yeah? For your haute cuisine,”* he mocked.
In the village, they were welcomed warmly—a feast beneath the apple tree, sausages sizzling on the grill. Owen felt alive, like a kid again. Chelsea whinged nonstop:
*“Owen, the grass is itchy. The meat smells weird. A mosquito bit me. The sun’s in my eyes!”*
*“Enough,”* he snapped. *“Enjoy it or go inside.”*
*“It’s stuffy,”* she griped, stomping off.
By the pond, fishing rod in hand, Owen asked:
*“Emily, you seeing anyone?”*
*“Not for a while. Why?”* She smiled.
*“You’re… lovely. Uncomplicated,”* he admitted.
*“And talented,”* James added. *“Knit me a jumper last week. Makes a mean shepherd’s pie too.”*
*“Meanwhile, your fiancée’s all talk and takeout,”* Emily teased.
*“True,”* Owen found himself agreeing. *“Never known her to boil an egg.”*
*“Plenty of time to learn,”* James chuckled.
Owen stayed quiet, realising a life with Chelsea meant no warmth, no home. On the drive back, she declared:
*“Never coming here again. Maldives next week.”*
*“I’m not going,”* Owen said firmly.
*“Then we’re done.”*
*“Fine.”*
Silence hung thick. Owen’s mind was made up: *“I’d rather have apple trees and fishing. I won’t marry her. Her dad’s threats mean nothing—I don’t belong in that world.”*
Dropping her off, he met her glare:
*“Last chance. Coming or not?”*
*“No. The village suits me better. We want different things.”*
*“Goodbye,”* she spat, slamming the door.
Relief washed over him. He dialed:
*“Emily, I’ll be there in two days. We’ll figure it out.”*
*“Alone?”* Her voice was soft.
*“Absolutely.”* His chest felt light.
*“I’ll wait.”*
His phone buzzed—Chelsea’s dad. Owen silenced it, refusing to let anything ruin this moment.
