**A Diary Entry: The Suitcase with a Broken Handle**
“Tom, don’t come over anymore. Alright?” I said calmly.
“What do you mean? Just not today?” he asked, confused.
It was early morning, and Tom was already in the hallway, rushing off to work.
“No, I mean never again,” I clarified.
“Hm… What’s wrong, Diane? Fine, I’ll call you later,” he muttered, giving me a hasty peck on the cheek before darting out. I shut the door behind him and sighed with relief.
Those words had been weighing on me for ages. Saying them wasn’t easy—Tom had been like family.
Last night, I had been passionate, insatiable. I was saying goodbye. Tom hadn’t a clue, completely oblivious.
“Diane! You’re brilliant today. An absolute goddess! Stay just like this—I love you, darling!” he’d gushed.
We’d once been family friends—me, my husband Rob, Tom, and his wife Squirrel (that’s what he affectionately called his Bella). Our youth had been loud, reckless, and carefree. Truth be told, I’d always fancied Tom a little. Whenever I bought a new dress, shoes, a handbag—some part of me wondered if he’d like it. Squirrel had been my best friend.
We’d been through so much together—too much to put into words. I knew Tom had a soft spot for me, but we’d always kept our distance.
At gatherings, he’d hug me tenderly and whisper, “Dee, I’ve missed you so much!”
I think when families are close, there’s always some attraction simmering beneath—men to women, or the other way round. People are weak when it comes to temptation. There’s always someone who fancies another, or someone secretly in love with their friend’s spouse. That’s why these friendships exist—until they don’t.
I don’t believe in platonic friendship between a man and woman. Sooner or later, they’ll “over-friend” each other. It’s like lighting a fire next to a haystack—sooner or later, everything burns to ash. There might be exceptions, but they’re rare.
My Rob used to eye Squirrel with far too much interest. I’d noticed it often enough to give him a playful smack on the head.
“Dee, don’t be daft! We’re mates!” he’d laugh, brushing me off before adding, “Only the dead don’t sin.”
I trusted Squirrel completely—she’d never cross the line. But Rob? He loved picking fruit from other people’s orchards. That’s why, after twenty years, we divorced. He married one of those “fruits” when she started twittering about babies. By then, our own kids had grown and left home. I packed Rob’s suitcase and sent him off to his new life.
At first, I grieved that dreaded spinsterhood. Tom and Squirrel dropped by often, pitying me—though truthfully, I wasn’t suffering. Still, holidays became unbearable. I’d wander the flat, restless, with no one to argue with, cry at, or just talk to. That’s when loneliness cuts deepest.
Then, three years later, Tom was widowed. Death doesn’t take bribes or listen to prayers. Squirrel had suffered a long, painful illness, and before she passed, she all but handed Tom over to me.
“Diane, look after Tommy. I don’t want him falling into some other woman’s hands. He’s always fancied you—I could tell. Be together.”
Tom mourned dutifully—granite headstone, fresh flowers on her grave. In time, he started visiting more often. I welcomed him, helping him grieve, ready to drown the poor widower in warmth and affection. We had plenty to reminisce about—laughs and sorrows both.
But as time passed, I began to resent it. Everything about Tom grated on me—his voice, his stories, his fussiness. His humour was flat, his presence cold. He droned on endlessly, yet nothing he said was worth hearing. Too picky with food, too particular with clothes. No matter how bright the moon shines, it’ll never be the sun.
Squirrel must’ve adored him to put up with it all.
Soon, guilt gnawed at me. Maybe I’d grown too used to solitude. Whatever fondness I’d had for him vanished. And when he started irritating me just by existing, I decided on a clean break—one unforgettable night (let him remember *that*) and then an end to it.
But Tom adored me blindly, convinced everything was perfect. He met every sharp remark with an innocent smile, kissed my hands, never raised his voice.
“Dee, don’t be cross. I’ll fix everything. You won’t get rid of me that easily—don’t let go. Who else will love you like I do?”
And he was right—who would? His words melted me like candle wax.
Later, during his lunch break, he rang.
“Diane! What’s wrong? Are you alright?” he fretted.
“I’m fine. Come home early—I’ve missed you,” I mumbled, feeling wretched.
Sigh. He’s my suitcase with a broken handle—too much of a bother to carry, but too sentimental to throw away.
Our paths are tangled now. What else could I do? Abandon him, a widower left in my care? Poor soul would be lost without me.
