**Diary Entry**
Leonard paced the cramped kitchen like a caged tiger, rubbing his palms, adjusting the dishes, shifting the sugar bowl—anything to distract himself from the suffocating silence. He needed to say it. He had to end this. Enough. He couldn’t take anymore.
Charlotte would cry, of course. Beg him to stay. Tell him she was exhausted, that she was trying. Promise him they could fix it. But he knew better. It was over. There was nothing left—just two strangers sharing a mortgage and a fridge. No love, no respect, not even irritation. Just emptiness.
The key turned in the lock. He braced himself, like he was about to leap off a cliff.
Charlotte trudged in, slumped onto the hallway bench. First thing—she kicked off her shoes. Those damn new heels. Another gruelling day as a retail consultant in the shopping centre had turned her into a machine: fetch, carry, fit, advise. Spring had people craving change—some searched for love, others for a new dress.
“Hello. Rough day?” Leonard ventured carefully.
“Like a dog. Didn’t sit down once,” she exhaled, not looking up.
“Right. Dinner soon?”
She nodded and moved to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, the stove hissed, pans sizzled, and the room filled with smells that Leonard still pretended gave life meaning.
He hovered in the doorway, steadying himself. A deep breath.
“Charlotte…” he began. “We need to talk.”
His wife turned, still peeling carrots. No surprise. No panic.
“Let’s split up,” he blurted. “I can’t do this anymore. We’re strangers. You’ve suffocated me. I’m an artist, and you? You’re just routine. Demand money, clip my wings, drag me down. I won’t live like this.”
An improvisation, but it sounded theatrical. Almost like an audition monologue.
Charlotte kept scraping the carrot, then suddenly hurled it into the sink, tugged off her apron, killed the heat, and faced him.
“Fine,” she said calmly. “Let’s. To hell with this life.”
He froze. This wasn’t part of the script. Where were the tears? The drama?
While his brain scrambled, Charlotte poured coffee, grabbed cheese and biscuits, and sat.
“Lottie… you’re in shock, I get it. But you felt it too, didn’t you? You cook like a machine. No passion—”
“Right. No passion,” she echoed, sipping her coffee.
The conversation crumbled. His lines slipped away.
“We need to sort the flat,” he muttered awkwardly. “And the rest…”
“Funny. Thought you’d run without looking back. But here you are—worried about the mortgage,” she sneered. “Fine. Keep the flat. Just pay back half what I’ve put in. I’ll move in with Dad. He’s asked for ages—getting on now.”
“Christ, you’re cold,” Leonard sighed. He’d imagined it simpler. Dreams of acting, auditioning while working as a security guard. Handing over his wages without question. Now? Money, paperwork, percentages.
He’d wanted freedom. Got a spreadsheet instead.
“Keep it all. Pay me whenever. I’m not a monster,” he added, as if gifting her Windsor Castle.
“Thanks. By the way… someone else?” Her tone was ice.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. Let her think he was in demand.
He left, smug. Freedom. A bohemian life, no pans, no nagging.
Six months later.
Leonard fidgeted outside that familiar door. Everything had unravelled. Living with Mum was hell. She berated him for the divorce, mocked his failed career, kicked him out at every excuse, screeched if he brought women home. Even a waitress bolted after one dinner.
Mum was worse than Charlotte. Far worse.
The cherry on top? She wanted him gone. Probably had a new man. They rowed. She called him a loser, told him to get a real job, not chase films.
Then Lottie called. Said to settle the flat, finalise the divorce. So here he was.
He rehearsed: sorrowful eyes, remorse, a single tear.
Pressed the bell.
“Hi. Come in,” Charlotte opened the door. She looked… radiant. Or maybe he’d just missed her.
He strode into the kitchen like he still belonged. Then froze.
Topping up the grill was a half-naked bloke in joggers. Sizzling meat. A stack of cash on the table.
“Who the hell are you?” Leonard croaked.
“Max,” the man said, not turning.
“Lottie… can we talk?” Leonard wheezed.
In the living room, he hissed: “Who’s that? What’s he doing here?”
“Cooking dinner,” she said flatly.
“And me?”
“You left.”
Silence. Thick as a noose.
“What if… I came back?”
“Where? Seat’s taken. Max doesn’t hate my ‘practical’ side. He wants a family. Kids. A cottage. We’re marrying as soon as the divorce clears.”
“And you?”
“And me.”
“And me?” Leonard wailed. “What’s he got that I don’t?”
She smiled. “You fed me promises. He feeds me dinner.”
