“Loves Me? Loves Me Not? Or Just Herself?”
Polly fixed her old schoolmate with a glare so sharp it might as well have been an accusation. “What do you mean you can’t choose? If you’re torn between two men, you don’t love either. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
“Easy for you to say,” sighed Olivia, turning away. “Not everyone’s as sure of themselves as you are. They’re both lovely, in their own ways. Decent blokes, both of them.”
“You just love yourself more than either of them,” Polly pressed, voice tight. “Playing with people’s hearts isn’t fair. It’s rotten.”
Olivia scoffed. “I’m still learning how to love. On Monday, I think it’s the first. On Tuesday, the second. Wednesday, back to the first. It’s not funny. They’re both good men. Both familiar.”
“Flip a coin if you can’t decide,” Polly muttered. “Better than dangling them both on a string. At least your conscience would be clear.”
“Cheers for the advice. Why don’t you toss your coins into the Thames while you’re at it? Maybe they’ll bring you luck. Or better yet—you’ve never even had a choice, have you? Or anyone worth choosing?”
“I’d never lie like that!” Polly shot back. “I’ve got Andrew. He loves me. I love him. Simple as that.”
“Sure, sure. Best of British to you,” Olivia said with a sour smile.
***
Three years later, Polly sat alone in a half-empty pub, tears slipping into her lukewarm glass of wine. That old conversation looped in her head like a scratched record.
“Never say never”—who knew she’d end up just as tangled? Only now, it was her torn between two men. Her, the one who used to dish out advice like cheap sweets.
She’d been with Vincent for over a year. Everything seemed perfect. Steady, clever, attentive. The sort you build a life with. And yes, dead serious about it.
Then, out of nowhere, Andrew reappeared. That Andrew. The ex. The one who’d left her—jealous, suspicious, picking fights over nothing. They’d split when it was clear he didn’t see her as his girl anymore. She’d become invisible to him. Everything she did was wrong—her words, her clothes, even her glances. Then silence. The breakup. Months of hollow loneliness.
And then—a call. “Hey, how’ve you been? I’ve got no one else to talk to. Fancy meeting up?”
She went. Out of habit. To prove to herself it was long over.
But there he was—Andrew, frayed at the edges. Jobless, his mum ill, no one else in his life. He talked and talked, and she listened. And pitied him.
She never mentioned Vincent. Never said she might be happy. That someone was waiting for her.
Andrew started texting. Calling. Asking her out. They met up—innocently, at first. Then more often.
With Vincent, nothing changed. He was there, steady as ever. Gifts, gentle touches, that warm, adoring look. Always.
But Andrew—it was like stepping back in time. The old crowd, gigs, road trips. With him, she was twenty again. Vincent didn’t get it. He was serious. Reserved. A proper homebody.
Polly was torn in two. Vincent was a future. Andrew was a ghost—one she still pitied. Maybe even loved?
She replayed the choices in her head. How to tell the truth? How to choose?
One evening, when the guilt clawed too hard, she dialed Olivia’s number. To apologise. To beg forgiveness for those old words.
“Listen, about what I said back then… I get it now. I know how you felt.”
“Forgive you for what?” Olivia sounded genuinely puzzled. “I don’t even remember who I picked. That was ages ago.”
“Now I’m the one stuck. Between two. Terrified.”
“You really think love means being torn in half? You don’t love either of them. You just love yourself. And if someone did this to you—strung you along while loving someone else—would you stick around?”
“No,” Polly whispered.
“There’s your answer. You wouldn’t. Because that’s what selfish people do. Polly, if one of them truly mattered to you—look at him. Imagine him gone. Imagine never seeing his smile again, never feeling his hand in yours—”
“Vincent,” Polly blurted.
Goosebumps prickled her skin. She pictured it—no more of his quiet patience, no warmth, no love.
And suddenly, she knew.
She knew who she loved.
P.S. Sometimes, to hear your own heart, you’ve got to stop lying to yourself.
