“Loves me? Loves me not? Or just loves herself?”
Polly stared at her school friend with such disdain, as if she’d confessed to a crime. “What do you mean you can’t choose? If you’re torn between two men, you don’t love either of them. It’s plain as day.”
“Easy for you to say,” Olivia sighed heavily. “They both mean something to me. In different ways. And they’re both good men.”
“You just love yourself more than either of them,” Polly pressed on, sharp as a blade. “Someone who truly loves wouldn’t play with people’s hearts. It’s cruel. It’s selfish.”
“Not everyone’s as perfect as you,” Liv shot back, turning away. “I’m still learning. I don’t have the experience. Monday, I’m sure it’s the first. Tuesday—definitely the second. Wednesday, back to square one. It’s not a joke. They’re both dear to me.”
“Flip a coin if you can’t decide,” Polly muttered. “Better than dangling between them like this. At least your conscience would be clear.”
“Thanks for the advice. Go back to throwing your pennies in Trafalgar Square and wishing on luck. But let’s not forget—maybe you’ve never even had a choice. Or anyone to choose from.”
“I’d never lie like that!” Polly snapped. “I have Andrew. He loves me. I love him. And that’s that.”
“Oh, brilliant. Happy-ever-after, then,” Liv scoffed.
Three years later, Polly sat alone in a dimly lit London pub, tears streaming down her face. A half-drunk glass of warm white wine sat untouched. That old conversation echoed in her mind like a cruel joke.
*Never say never.* Who’d have thought she’d be the one torn between two men now? The same Polly who’d doled out wisdom like it was nothing.
With William, things had been perfect—steady, kind, devoted. A man with real intentions. But then, out of nowhere, Andrew reappeared. *Her* Andrew. The ex who’d once adored her, then picked her apart—jealous, suspicious, snapping over nothing.
They’d ended it when she realised she’d become invisible to him. Never the right words, never the right dress, never the right glance. Silence. Heartbreak. Months alone.
Then—*that* call. *”Hey, it’s me. Fancy a chat? Let’s meet.”*
She went. Out of habit. To prove to herself it was over.
But there he was—lost, defeated. Jobless, nursing a sick mother, utterly alone. He talked. She listened. And pitied him.
She never mentioned William. Never said she might be happy. That someone was waiting for her.
Andrew kept calling. Texts. Invites. Meetings that started innocent—then didn’t.
With William, nothing changed. He was still there. Thoughtful. Tender. The way he looked at her—like she was everything.
But Andrew… it was nostalgia. Laughter, old friends, gigs, road trips. With him, she felt young again. William wouldn’t understand—too serious, too busy, too quiet.
She was splitting in two. William—solid, safe, a future. Andrew—a ghost she still pitied. Or… loved?
Night after night, she replayed the choices. How to tell the truth? How to choose?
One evening, the guilt too heavy, she dialled Liv’s number. To apologise.
“I’m sorry… I get it now. How you must’ve felt.”
“Sorry for what?” Liv sounded genuinely confused. “I barely remember who I was choosing. That was ages ago.”
“But I’m you now. Stuck between two. Terrified.”
“If you were really in love, would there *be* a choice? You don’t love either. You just love *you*. What if one of them was doing this to *you*?”
“No one,” Polly whispered.
“Exactly. No one. Because that’s what selfish people do. Polly—look at them. Picture life without one. Imagine he’s gone. That you’ll never see his smile, never feel his hand in yours again—”
“William,” she blurted.
A shiver ran through her. The thought—no more warmth, no patience, no love.
And just like that, she knew.
*P.S. Sometimes, to hear your own heart, you just have to stop lying to yourself.*
