**Diary Entry**
*Oliver, don’t come over again. Alright?* I said it calmly, though my chest tightened as the words left my lips.
*What—you mean not today?* Oliver frowned, confused, standing in the hallway. He was rushing to work, like always.
*No, not ever.*
*Hmm… What’s happened, Diana? Look, I’ll call you later,* he muttered before pressing a hurried kiss to my cheek and vanishing out the door. I shut it behind him and exhaled, my shoulders finally dropping.
I’d rehearsed those words for weeks. They hadn’t come easily. Oliver had been family for so long.
Last night, I’d been fierce. Unrelenting. A final farewell. He hadn’t understood, of course. Just grinned and called me *brilliant, goddess, perfection.* Said he loved me.
We’d been friends since our twenties—me, my husband Roger, Oliver, and his wife Bella (though he always called her *Squirrel* in that fond, daft way of his). Wild days, those. Reckless. Full of laughter. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fancied Oliver back then. Every dress, every pair of shoes I bought, I’d wonder—would *he* like it? Bella was my closest friend. We’d been through hell together.
And I always knew Oliver had a soft spot for me. But boundaries held. Mostly. At gatherings, he’d hug me too long, whisper, *Missed you, Di.*
Here’s the truth: when couples are friends that close, there’s always *something* simmering beneath. Someone’s tempted. Someone’s smitten. That’s how these things go. Friendship between men and women? I don’t buy it. There’s always a past, present, or future temptation. Like lighting a match near dry hay—eventually, it’ll blaze.
Roger used to eye Squirrel like she was dessert, licking his lips, until I’d smack his arm. *Stop it, you prat,* I’d snap.
He’d just laugh. *Don’t be daft, Di! We’re mates!* Then, grinning: *Only the dead don’t stray.*
I never doubted Bella. But Roger? That man would pluck fruit from any orchard. We divorced after twenty years when some tart started babbling about *giving him an heir.* Our own kids were grown by then. I packed his bags and sent him off without a tear.
*So this is it, then. Just me.* At first, I mourned it. Oliver and Squirrel hovered, pitying me—but truthfully, I didn’t mind solitude. Except on holidays. Those hollow days where the walls press in, and there’s no one to bicker with, no one to *live* beside.
Then, three years later, Squirrel died. Cancer. Slow, cruel. On her deathbed, she made me promise: *Look after Ollie. Don’t let some other woman have him. He’s always loved you.*
So I did. Oliver grieved properly—marble headstone, fresh flowers every week. Then, bit by bit, he started appearing at my door. I gave him all I had—warmth, care, memories. We laughed. We cried. We were good together.
Until we weren’t.
His voice grated. His jokes fell flat. His fussiness drove me spare—too picky about food, clothes, *everything.* As if no matter how long the moon shines, it’ll never be the sun. Christ, how had Squirrel tolerated him?
The realisation came sharp: I didn’t *want* him. Not like this.
But Oliver adored me. Blindly. Smothered every spat with kisses, never raised his voice. *Don’t be cross, Di. I’ll fix it,* he’d murmur. *You’ll never shake me loose. Who’d love you like I do?*
And he wasn’t wrong.
When he called at lunch, frantic, I caved. *Come over early,* I sighed. *I’ve missed you.*
Bloody hell. He’s like a suitcase with a broken handle—can’t bear to toss it, can’t stand carrying it.
But what choice do I have? Leave a grieving man to rot?
Not yet. Not today.
**Lesson:** The heart’s a stubborn thing—even when it knows better.
