Simon was gone, and she only smiled.
“God, I’m so sick of this!” Simon paced the kitchen, nerves fraying as his shoes clicked against the laminated floor. “Same damn routine every day! Come home from work, and it’s all just this closing-in atmosphere.”
“Care to elaborate?” Emily stood by the stove, stirring the soup, her spine rigid but face unreadable. Her voice held the weariness of someone who’d heard this monologue a hundred times.
“What do you think I mean? Your constant coldness! You’re always caught up in your work, your thoughts, this world of yours where maybe I don’t even fit!” His hand slammed against the countertop, rattling the cups in their cabinet. “When was the last time you asked about my day? When did we last do anything together?”
Emily turned slowly, the spoon hovering above the pot. Her eyes were tired, but her expression was smooth, like silence had settled there a long time ago.
“You took me to the cinema two weeks ago,” she said, matter-of-fact.
“And you spent the whole time scrolling through your phone!” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m done. I’m out.”
A beat of silence. The steam from the soup hung like fog between them.
“Where are you going—right now?” Emily’s voice was quiet, measured.
“Not today. Forever. From you. From this…” He gestured at the room, the flickering ceiling bulb, the chipped mugs. “From all of it.”
Emily set the spoon down. The impact was louder than it had any right to be. She’d been expecting this, yet the words struck like a thunderclap.
“I’ve met someone else,” he blurted, as if confessing a crime. “Someone who actually *cares* about me. Laughs at my jokes.”
She watched him for a long time. Then, the faintest smile tugged at her lips—not bitter, not angry, but something that felt like relief blooming in the air.
“Alright,” she said. “When do you plan to move out?”
Simon froze. This was not the storm of tears or accusations he’d anticipated. The floor seemed to shift beneath him.
“Are you not even going to fight for your marriage?” he challenged, heat rising in his chest.
“Is there anything left to fight for?” She walked to the window, her silhouette framed against the ashen London sky. “We’ve been strangers in the same house for years. You’re right. I live in my own world. And you’ve never felt at home there.”
Simon grabbed for words. She barely looked at him. “I’ll come back for my stuff tomorrow while you’re at work,” he muttered, retreating into the hallway. The front door slammed.
Emily turned off the hob. The flat felt suddenly huge. She sat at the table, opened her phone, and read her best friend’s message: *Well? Did you finally say it?*
No, she thought. He said it first. And for once, it was for the best.
A week later, Emily sipped her tea at a corner booth in their favorite café, across from Natasha. Her friend’s brow furrowed with concern.
“Are you just… letting him go? No attempt to fix things?”
Emily stirred her drink. “What’s there to fix? You know the past two years were like living with housemates.”
“But ten years together!” Natasha leaned forward. “Doesn’t that mean *anything*?”
“It does.” Emily glanced out the fogged window at the Thames. “But not enough to keep torturing each other.”
“Emily, you’ve never been this… calm about this,” Natasha said. “You would’ve fought for him before.”
“I did,” Emily admitted. “Before.” She traced the rim of her cup. “Now I just want peace. It’s like a massive weight finally lifted. I spent years waiting for some miracle that never came. I even had a speech ready that night—about us needing to part. But he beat me to it.”
Natasha hesitated. “So, no anger? No hurt?”
“Some. But not because he left. Because I let it drag on for so long, hoping for something that wasn’t there. I even envied his… *her*. Not for him, for her courage. She knew what she wanted and went for it. I was stuck waiting for something I couldn’t even name.”
“And now?”
“Now, life,” Emily said, a real smile breaking through. “I’ve got a new job offer. Creative, passionate work. I’m finally living, not just surviving.”
That night, Emily returned to the hollow flat. Simon’s things were gone, but the absence of his stubble razor, his clutter of socks, his keyboard on the desk felt strangely comforting. The silence no longer held shame.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Clara, Simon’s mother.
*Dearest Emily, must we speak of this madness? Simon won’t explain, only that you left him. Are you well?*
Emily sat on the edge of the couch. “I’m fine, Clara,” she typed, though it wasn’t the truth. “It was better this way. We’ve both moved on. He’s with someone new, and I… I’m starting fresh.”
The reply was immediate. *”Starting fresh?* But *why must love end? You were such a beautiful couple!”*
Emily exhaled. Clara never could understand endings. “Some roads just run out, even if you were once the same person.”
She titled the headboard of her new paint samples—*£120 per litre*—and scrawled a to-do list. The doorbell rang.
Simon stood there, soaked from the drizzle, a box clutched in his hand.
“Just needed something,” he mumbled, stepping inside without an invitation.
He lingered in the living room, staring at the untouched walls. “You’re renovating it all?”
“Only where it matters,” Emily said, not looking up from her list. “You know I’ve always wanted to paint the lounge like the sky.”
“Alone?” His voice was quieter now, like the spring wind outside.
“Of course. I’ll hire the professionals for the basics. The rest is mine.”
He gripped the box tighter. “Are you really okay with all this?”
“Perfectly,” she said, and her smile was the same one that had disarmed him that first night. “You too, Simon? Found a place?”
His eyes dropped. “For now. With her.”
“Good,” Emily nodded. “Heaven knows you deserve it.”
He stared at her, as if trying to reassemble the woman he’d known for a decade.
“You’re not the same,” he said at last.
“No,” she agreed. “Maybe for the better.”
He left. But the next time he returned, the flat had transformed. The walls shimmered in soft hues of seafoam and blush. A mosaic backsplash in the kitchen glittered like the river at dusk.
“You redecorated everything,” he whispered.
“Only the parts that needed changing,” she said.
Simon wandered through the rooms, tracing the new bookshelf where old photos now sat—Emily with her parents, her friends, the Alps, the Amalfi Coast… But none of them with him.
“Where are the photos of us?” he asked.
“In the album,” she said. “I didn’t throw them away. They just… belong to the past now.”
Simon paused in the doorway. “You look… brighter. Younger.”
“Call it clarity,” she said.
He left again. And this time, he didn’t return.
Years later, Emily sipped coffee in a glass-walled café near the Thames, the painter’s canvas of the city unrolling before her. A familiar figure appeared in the doorway.
Simon. Still not quite meeting her eyes.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello,” she replied, gesturing to the seat.
He dropped into the chair, hands wrapped around a single espresso. “Ten years ago, I thought leaving you would be the end.”
“Sometimes it only feels like the end until you realize it was the beginning,” she said.
He looked at her, really looked, and smiled faintly.
“I think I finally understand that smile now.”
Emily sipped her coffee, warm and deep. She was no longer a shadow in someone else’s life. She was the light.
