**A Diary Entry: He Chose Her, Not Me**
“No, Eleanor, you don’t understand! I can’t go on like this!” Marina grabbed her friend’s wrist so tightly that Eleanor winced. “He’s marrying her! That… that airhead! And what, have I wasted twelve years of my life?”
“Marina, let go—you’re hurting me!” Eleanor tried to pull away, but Marina’s grip was iron, her eyes burning with despair. “Just listen—”
“No, you listen!” Marina shot up from the kitchen stool, pacing the small room like a caged animal. “Twelve years, Eleanor! Twelve years I waited for him! When he was at university, I worked to support him. When he hunted for jobs, I stood by him. When his mother fell ill, I sat by her hospital bed like her own daughter! And he… he…”
Her voice cracked. She dropped back into the chair, covering her face with her hands.
Eleanor nudged a now-cold cup of tea toward her.
“Maybe it’s for the best, Marina? Maybe he wasn’t meant for you?”
“Wasn’t meant for me?” Marina jerked her head up, her glare making Eleanor flinch. “Then what *is* meant for me? To sit alone at forty, wondering *what if*?”
“You’re only thirty-eight…”
“Almost thirty-nine!” Marina snapped. “And what now? Start over? Look for someone else? Who’d want me at this age? All the decent men are married already!”
Eleanor stayed silent. She’d known Marina since university, watched her swing between hope and misery for years. Victor drifted in and out, promising marriage one moment, claiming he wasn’t ready the next. And Marina waited, believing every word.
“Remember when we took those French lessons?” Eleanor asked softly. “You said you wanted to travel. Then you met Victor and gave it up.”
“What does French have to do with this?” Marina scoffed. “I *loved* him, understand? Truly loved. Not like those girls who swap men like shoes. And he… he just *used* me!”
“He didn’t use you. It just… wasn’t right.”
“Not right?” Marina marched to the window; outside, snow dusted the London street. “Know what he said when I found out? That I *knew* him too well. That Olivia—his precious Olivia—was *mysterious*. Mysterious! A twenty-year-old student who only knows how to take selfies!”
“Marina, don’t torment yourself—”
“I’m not! I’m *angry*! How could this happen? We were happy! Remember last summer at the cottage? The flowers he gave me? How he called me perfect?”
“I remember,” Eleanor nodded. “But that was years ago.”
“One year! Just *one*! We talked about children—*names* even! Now Olivia’s two months pregnant!”
Eleanor startled.
“Pregnant? You never told me!”
“Why bother?” Marina deflated, sinking into the chair like a punctured balloon. “Why should you know he’s not just marrying her but having a baby—the baby *we* dreamed of?”
“Good God, Marina—” Eleanor reached for her.
“Don’t pity me!” Marina shoved her off. “This is *my* fault! I should’ve left the first time he claimed he wasn’t ‘ready.’ But I thought I could change him—make him see how good I was!”
“You *are* good. Kind, clever, beautiful—”
“Beautiful?” Marina laughed bitterly. “Look at me! Grey hairs, wrinkles, this weight. And Olivia? Young, slim, fashionable. *Of course* he picked her.”
“It’s not about looks!”
“Then *what*? Explain it, Eleanor! What did I do wrong? Why couldn’t I keep him?”
Eleanor took her hands.
“Hear me. You did nothing wrong. You were loyal, devoted, everything a woman could be. But Victor… he wasn’t the man to make you happy. He’s selfish, Marina. Always was.”
“No, you don’t know him! He could be so tender—”
“When it suited him. Remember how he vanished for months when *you* needed him? How he dodged introducing you to his parents? How he swore he loved you—then slept with others?”
“How do *you* know?” Marina whirled.
Eleanor hesitated.
“I… saw him. A year ago. With some blonde in a café. Kissing. I wanted to tell you, but—”
“But you didn’t!” Marina stormed across the room. “You knew he cheated and stayed silent!”
“I wasn’t sure! Maybe it was harmless—”
“Or his mistress!” Marina froze, glaring. “I *deserved* to know!”
“And what would you have done? Left him? We both know you’d have forgiven him—*again*.”
Marina opened her mouth—then shut it. Eleanor was right. She’d forgiven Victor everything: broken promises, absences, excuses. Always justifying, always hoping.
“Know what hurts most?” Marina whispered. “I thought we were the same—shared dreams, values. But he doesn’t even remember our talks. When I asked if he recalled our plans, he called them ‘nonsense.’”
“They weren’t nonsense to you.”
“No. Every word, every kiss mattered. To him? I was just… convenient. Reliable. Until something better came along.”
Eleanor stirred sugar into fresh tea.
“So what now?”
Marina sighed. “Sometimes I want to scream at him. Other times, I wish I could erase him.”
“Erasing might be easier.”
“Easy for you to say! How do I forget twelve years? The man I loved more than myself? I *quit* jobs for him! Turned down that promotion in Manchester because he hated big cities!”
“I thought you’d lost your mind.”
“So did I. I molded my life around him—he barely noticed. Or worse, *expected* it.”
Marina studied herself in the mirror.
“My mum always warned me: ‘Never give everything to a man. Keep something for yourself.’ I didn’t listen. I thought love meant sacrifice.”
“Maybe she was right.”
“She was. But I was blind. I believed perfection and patience would win him.”
“And now?”
“Now I see. Men don’t treasure what comes easily. They want mystery—his exact words. I was an open book. Predictable. *Boring*.”
Eleanor drained her tea.
“What if he regrets it? Realizes what he lost?”
“Then what?” Marina turned. “He’ll crawl back, and I’ll take him? No. Even if he begs, I won’t.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I’m not that girl anymore, begging for scraps. I want a man who loves *me*—not convenience.”
“Those men exist.”
“Perhaps. But first, I need to find *myself*. Twelve years living for *him*—what do *I* like? Who *am* I?”
“You’ll learn. Remember French? Maybe it’s time to travel.”
Marina smiled for the first time that night.
“Yes. I’d like that. Know what? I’m *glad* he’s marrying her. Now I’m free.”
Eleanor hugged her. Outside, snow kept falling.
Marina closed her eyes. Tomorrow, a new life began. Without Victor. Without waiting.
He’d chosen another. It hurt—but now, she was free to choose herself.
