**Led by the Heart**
Emily stepped out of the office and saw the elevator doors open as people shuffled inside.
“Wait!” she called out, breaking into a run.
At the end of the workday, just like mornings, catching the lift was always a struggle. She slipped in at the last moment, squeezing past the crowd. Pressed tight against the chest of the man in front of her, she felt the doors close at her back.
“Sorry,” she murmured, turning her face away—his chin nearly brushing her forehead. The faint scent of his cologne lingered pleasantly.
“Don’t worry.”
They stood like that all the way down to the ground floor, uncomfortably close.
Finally, the lift halted, and the doors slid open. Emily stepped backward, only for the man to follow, steadying her elbow so she wouldn’t stumble and guiding her aside before the exiting crowd could jostle her. It almost felt like a dance. Before she could exhale or thank him properly, her friend Charlotte appeared beside her.
“Heading home? I can give you a lift.”
Emily glanced at her, never getting a proper look at the man or a chance to speak.
“No, I’ll walk—clear my head a bit.”
They stepped outside. A light drizzle had begun, and people hurried past under umbrellas.
“It’s raining. Stay here, I’ll bring the car round.”
“Lottie, really, I’d rather walk.” Emily dug into her handbag for her own umbrella.
“Suit yourself,” Charlotte said, eyeing her suspiciously.
With a quick goodbye, Emily popped open her brolly and merged into the stream of pedestrians. She craved solitude, time to think. Home didn’t appeal to her just then, if she were honest.
The umbrella proved a nuisance, forcing her to dodge others’ just to avoid collisions. She closed it with a sigh and tucked it away. Buds swelled on the trees, a few already unfurling into tender leaves—fleeting beauty worth remembering.
As she walked, she wondered how she’d ended up wrong again—not geographically, but romantically. She lived in the flat left to her by her grandmother, free of mortgages or loans. That alone seemed to attract the wrong sort of men. Too late, she realized it.
So she dragged her feet, strolling just to delay returning home, where *James* waited. Not for her—just for the dinner she’d cook. And it had all started so beautifully…
***
It had been just Emily and her mum growing up. Her father left when she was nine. By sixth form, her mother had remarried, and suddenly, a strange man occupied their home. Emily, used to padding about in shorts and a vest, got scolded for parading half-dressed in front of an adult. Already self-conscious, she withdrew entirely, staying in her room unless necessary. Her grandmother solved the problem, inviting Emily to stay so the “newlyweds could adjust.” It suited everyone.
Her first year at university, her grandmother passed, leaving Emily alone. At uni, she had fancied Daniel—handsome, athletic, swarmed by girls. She never stood a chance… until one lecture, he sat beside her, then walked her home.
Within a month, he’d moved in. Her mother warned that nothing good would come of it, but Emily refused to listen. *She* hadn’t interfered with her mother’s love life—why should her mother meddle in hers? She was grown, in love, and everything *would* be fine. They fought bitterly.
Nearly two years they lived together, almost a family. Graduation loomed; exams finished. Emily was certain he’d propose—marriage, a future. But diplomas were handed out, celebrations had, and Daniel… left.
“Home?” she’d asked. “When will you be back?”
“I’m not coming back. First home, then London. My uncle’s got a job for me.”
“And me?”
“Em, come on. We had a good thing, yeah? I’m grateful you let me stay—beat the dorms. But I’ve got to move forward. Marriage isn’t on my mind. I want a career, a London flat, to travel. I never promised you anything, did I?”
“We could’ve gone together—”
“We couldn’t.”
As he spoke, she realized she didn’t know him at all. She wept, professed love, begged him to stay.
“I don’t love you. You were convenient—kind, good. You’ll meet a decent bloke, marry, have kids. But that’s not for me, not yet. Thanks for everything, but our paths split here. Sorry.”
He left. She cried into her pillow for days. Her mother came, not to gloat, just to hold her. The worst part? He’d never loved her—just the flat. His departure, at least, mended things with her mother.
***
Emily took time recovering, avoiding romance. Her workplace was mostly women anyway.
At the bus stop each morning, she often saw a young man. They’d board the same bus, ride a few stops together. Eventually, they exchanged smiles, then greetings, then snippets of conversation. She liked this easy, uncomplicated bond. Strangers, yet not. Mornings, she’d hurry to the stop, wondering if she’d see him, heart leaping when she did.
Then, he vanished. She lingered, missed her bus some days, hoping he’d appear. But he never did.
Until one evening, crossing the road, she saw him. Her pulse fluttered—she’d thought him gone for good.
“Haven’t seen you lately. Were you ill?”
“Laid off. No more office commutes. Freelancing now, but it’s hard—mum needs help, my sister distracts me. Job hunting’s grim. I wanted to see you… I don’t even know your name.”
“Emily.”
“I’m Jake. Friends call me James.”
They walked, chatting, slipping naturally into first-name terms.
“Will I see you again?” she asked outside her flat.
“Course. I live close—I’ll wait for you at the stop.”
And he did, often. He’d walk her home, they’d talk. Emily withheld that she lived alone—no repeats of being used. But James never pushed for tea or more. He lived with his mum and little sister anyway.
She liked him, liked this soft romance without pressure. He wasn’t striking like Daniel—better. At twenty-five, she craved love, to love and be loved. Past failures faded fast.
One rainy evening, she invited him in. Later, she suggested he move in—quieter for work, no more bus-stop rendezvous.
James never found steady work. “Online pays better,” he claimed. Video editing, websites—flexible hours.
Emily left for work; James stayed. Sometimes peeled potatoes, boiled pasta. Even shopped. He proposed quickly. The wedding was postponed—some earnings went to his family, some saved. She liked that.
But returning home, she’d find him on the sofa, beer in hand, laptop sleeping. The potatoes went unpeeled, shopping neglected. “Too busy,” he’d say. Yet money never grew.
“Mum’s ill—medications. Sis needs a prom dress. Everything’s so pricey.”
James stopped shaving daily. “Why bother? Who sees me?” *She* didn’t count. Leaving the house became rare; track pants his uniform.
“I asked you to hang the laundry. Now it’s crumpled beyond ironing,” she snapped once.
“Working from home doesn’t make me your maid. I earn, no weekends either. If I drink a beer and watch football, so what? I need breaks.” He bristled at every grievance.
Fights multiplied. Wedding talk ceased. Emily doubted she wanted this. Again, she’d been wrong.
When she asked how much he’d saved—enough for *three* weddings by her math—he exploded. “I don’t owe you accounts! My money, my family! You’re not my wife!”
He backpedaled, but reconciliation took days.
Now, Emily dawdled after work. Home meant a sink of dishes, beer cans, cooking meals he once helped with. James had grown soft, belly round. Heart-to-hearts? Gone. Every attempt sparked rows.
Today, she walked despite the rain, rehearsing the breakup speech. No love left—just obligation.
“Em!”
She barely registered her name, lost in thought.
“Emily!”
She turned. A handsome man in a sharp suit, beard neatly trimmed, stepped from a parked car, grinning.
“Been shouting—what’s on your mind, gorgeous?”
“…Chris? *Christopher*?”
“The one and only.”
“You look *different*.”
“You haven’t changed—still stunning.”
“How are you? What—?” They spoke over each other.
“Married, a son starting school soon. Wife’s expecting again—hoping for a girl. Business is good…” He talked; she thought of her own stalled life. At twenty-six, she owned a flat, had a job—but no family, no love. Brick and mortar couldn’t replace those.
As the elevator doors closed behind her the next morning, she caught his eye—the man from yesterday, smelling faintly of that same cologne—and this time, she smiled first.
