**A Diary of Lost Love**
Leonard paced the cramped kitchen like a caged animal, fidgeting with cups, rearranging the sugar bowl, clinging to mundane distractions he despised. The words swirled in his head—time to speak, time to end it. He couldn’t go on like this.
Emily would cry, of course. She’d beg him to stay, swear she was trying, insist they could fix things. But he knew the truth. This was it. Just two strangers sharing a mortgage and a fridge—no love, no respect, not even annoyance. Just emptiness.
The key turned in the lock. He braced himself.
Emily slumped onto the hallway bench, kicked off her new heels—those damn new heels. Another gruelling shift as a retail assistant in the shopping centre had turned her into a machine, fetching, carrying, folding, smiling. Spring had people craving change—love, new clothes, fresh starts.
“Rough day?” Leonard ventured.
“Like a dog’s dinner. Didn’t sit once,” she muttered, barely glancing up.
“Dinner soon?”
She nodded and vanished into the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, pots bubbled, pans sizzled, the air thick with smells Leonard still wished meant something.
He lingered in the doorway, steeling himself. Deep breath.
“Emily… we need to talk.”
She turned, still peeling carrots—no surprise, no panic.
“Let’s call it quits,” he blurted. “We’re strangers. You’ve drained me. I’m an artist, and you’re just… chores. Bills, routines, clipping my wings. I’m done.”
It was off-script, but theatrical. Almost like an audition piece.
Emily scraped the carrot, flung it into the sink, tossed her apron aside, killed the hob, and faced him.
“Fine. Sod the lot of it.”
His jaw dropped. No tears? No rage?
While he reeled, she brewed coffee, set out cheese and biscuits, and sat.
“Em… You’re in shock. But you felt it too, yeah? You cook like a robot. No heart in it.”
“No heart,” she echoed, sipping her coffee.
His script crumbled. Lines forgotten.
“What about the flat?” he fumbled.
“Thought you’d run without a backward glance. But here you are—worried about the mortgage.” She smirked. “Keep it. Just pay back half what I’ve put in. I’ll move in with Dad—he’s been asking.”
“You’re bloody calculating,” he exhaled. He’d dreamed of film roles, scraping by as a nightclub bouncer, handing over his wages without question. Now? Contracts, payments, paperwork.
He’d wanted freedom. Got an accountant instead.
“Keep it all. Pay me when you can,” he said grandly, like he’d gifted her Windsor Castle, not a one-bed flat.
“Ta. So… anyone else?” she asked, bored.
“Doesn’t matter.” Let her think he was in demand.
He left, light with victory. Freedom. No more drudgery.
Six months later.
Leonard hovered outside the familiar door. Life had curdled. His mum’s couch was purgatory—snipes about the divorce, his failed acting dreams, her screeching fits when he brought women home. Even a waitress bolted after one visit.
Mum was worse than Emily. Far worse.
The final straw? She kicked him out. Called him a loser, told him to get a proper job.
Then Emily rang—finalise the flat, sign the papers. So here he was.
He rehearsed: penitent look, choked-back tears. Rang the bell.
“Come in,” she said. She looked… radiant. Or maybe he’d just forgotten.
He strode into the kitchen—and froze.
A half-naked bloke in joggers manned the hob, frying steak. Pounds piled on the table.
“Who’re you?” Leonard croaked.
“Max,” the man said, not bothering to turn.
“Em—can we talk?” he pleaded.
In the living room, he hissed, “Who the hell is that?”
“Cooking dinner,” she said calmly.
“What about me?”
“You left.”
Silence. Thick as judgement.
“What if I… came back?”
“Where? Spot’s taken. Max doesn’t mind my ‘practical’ side. Wants kids, a garden, a life. We’re marrying once the divorce is through.”
“And you’re fine with that?”
“I am.”
“What’s he got that I don’t?” he wailed.
“You fed me promises. He feeds me dinner.”
**Lesson learned: Freedom’s worthless on an empty stomach.**
