**A Love That Never Was**
The bus idled at a crossroads in the heart of a quiet English town when William caught sight of her lips. The girl brushed a stray dandelion fluff from her sleeve. That fleeting motion, like a whisper to the wind, struck him like sunlight piercing a shadowed room—
“You’ll be my wife,” he blurted to the stranger, not understanding why his whole life suddenly reflected back in her hazel eyes.
She turned slowly, her gaze not startled but cold, as if assessing a cracked canvas rather than a man—
“You’re mad.”
“I’ll be the best husband you could ask for. Say yes.”
She laughed, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “Why would I? I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s change that. Meet me again,” he said with a theatrical bow, leaving no room for refusal. “William, an engineer with big plans. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Emily,” she replied, as if in a dream. “An artist. Maybe famous one day, maybe not.”
“Perfect pair—a pragmatist and a dreamer,” he grinned. “We’ll balance each other out.”
“No, thanks,” she cut in. “I’m complete enough on my own.”
“That’s why I’ll love you,” William said, his pulse quickening. “Tomorrow, eight o’clock, by the fountain in the park. I’ll make it a night you won’t forget.”
Emily didn’t like him. She had no intention of going. But the next morning, bragging to her friend Sophie, she recounted how some stranger had proposed on the spot, swearing undying love.
“And you said *no*?” Sophie gasped. “Are you daft? When a man falls head over heels like that, you milk it! Maybe he’s loaded. Free dinners, at least.”
“He’s waiting tonight,” Emily shrugged. “Fancy tagging along? We’ll test how generous he really is. I’ll die of boredom alone.”
“Absolutely, let’s go!”
One evening turned into many. William clung to them like a shadow, sparing no expense—cinema tickets, cosy cafés, expensive paints, premium brushes. A seasoned engineer at a tech firm, he could afford it.
Emily never hid her indifference. She flatly admitted she kept him around out of boredom, waiting for real love to come along. Someone else. In short, she was doing *him* a favour.
William watched her like a wilful child, ending every date the same way:
“You’ll be my wife.”
She’d laugh. Who’d want a wife who eyed other men? But William didn’t back down. He didn’t court her—he laid siege.
He met her after classes, took her to galleries, bought her jewellery, memorised her habits. Took care of her would-be suitors—one lad “accidentally” got roughed up in an alley. He even rang her mum: “Your daughter deserves better than these boys.”
Emily fumed, shouting she wasn’t his property, that this was the 21st century. Out of spite, she dated others. A broke art student she fancied. A snobbish literature undergrad from a rich family. A musician from down the road who loved fiercely—until he chased another girl a week later.
After each heartache, William materialised like a spectre:
“Told you they weren’t right.”
Her mother soon sided with him. When Emily rebelled and cut contact, she sighed, “You’re being daft. Marriage isn’t about passion. He loves you. A man like that won’t let you down.”
“Jazz night,” he’d say, handing her tickets when she’d planned a date with someone else.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” he’d murmur when that boy vanished days later.
Emily never asked how he managed it. Part of her was flattered by his obsession—like some old novel where a woman was worth fighting for.
“Marry me,” he said for the hundredth time, offering a sprig of cherry blossoms, her favourite. “I’ve bought land. We’ll build a house. You’ll have a studio.”
“I don’t love you,” she whispered. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t tried. I’ll make myself lovable.”
Exhaustion washed over her—not from him, but herself. At twenty-six, she’d begun to suspect the love she sought didn’t exist. Every “option” crumbled like sand. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe it was time to surrender.
“Fine,” she said. His face lit up, as if he’d glimpsed salvation.
He was the perfect husband. Flowers, never a complaint, shelving built to her sketches, carrying her proudly before guests. But the bedroom became a duty (“Come here, darling, I’ve missed you”). Children never came.
Emily didn’t live. She endured his love. Hated his sudden kisses on her neck while she chopped vegetables. Friends envied her; she wanted to scream, *Take him!* Their marriage was a stage where she played the happy wife.
They never fought—there was nothing to fight about. Once, she hurled her mother-in-law’s porcelain figurine against the wall. William didn’t flinch.
“Don’t fret, love. We’ll glue it.”
She realised then—he’d never let her go. She bought a train ticket, packed a bag. But William came home with a Siamese kitten she’d once mentioned wanting:
“You’ve been so sad… Thought he might help.”
Emily stayed.
Years later, he found the unused ticket tucked in a book. At dinner, he asked quietly,
“Why are you still here? If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Because…” She hesitated. “Loneliness is worse.”
William smiled, mistaking it for love.
But Emily knew the truth—she’d grown used to his devotion, and feared he was the only one who’d ever love her.
**Lesson learned:** Comfort is a gilded cage, and sometimes, we stay not for love, but for the terror of what lies beyond it.
