A bitter January wind howled outside, stripping the last remnants of hope from the barren trees as Emily sat by the window, trembling fingers clutching a crumpled note. The hastily scribbled words bled through the page—an ending. Five years of marriage dissolved into those jagged lines. Daniel was gone. He’d packed his things and vanished, offering no real explanation, just five cold words: “We’re not on the same path anymore.”
Emily couldn’t fathom it. Everything had been fine. They’d saved for a flat together, shared burdens, laughed through struggles. She’d loved him—truly loved him. And he? He’d just walked away, leaving nothing but silence and a gaping wound.
She wept until dawn. Then, jaw clenched, she forced herself to work. And there, on her desk—flowers. A small gesture, yet it stung. “Who sent these?” she asked. “From James, the IT bloke,” her colleagues tittered. Emily blinked. She hadn’t noticed before—how he’d bring her coffee every morning, slip chocolates with little notes onto her keyboard. Now, roses. She tossed them straight into the bin. Too soon.
But James was patient. Kind. He didn’t push, didn’t demand—just stayed close. Eight months later, he invited her to meet his parents. Her stomach knotted. “What if your mum hates me? I’m recently divorced…” she murmured. “Mum’s lovely, don’t fret,” he assured.
At first glance, Margaret seemed warm, gracious. Dinner was flawless. Emily relaxed. When James proposed two months later, she said yes without hesitation. For the first time in ages, she dared to believe happiness was possible.
Then, a week before the wedding, Margaret called. “Meet me outside your office. Don’t tell James,” she insisted.
Emily stepped into the icy air. There stood Margaret, clutching a leather handbag. “Final wedding details,” Emily assumed. She was wrong.
“Listen, dear,” Margaret’s voice was honeyed steel, “you’ve trapped my son rather quickly, haven’t you?”
“I—what? *He* proposed to *me*,” Emily stammered.
“I don’t know what nonsense you’ve spun, but you won’t have him. Walk away. For his sake,” Margaret said, then turned and left.
Emily stood frozen. The next day, her phone rang. Daniel.
“We need to talk,” he said.
They met. Spoke in circles. He was calm, smiling even. Then he kissed her cheek and walked off. *What was that?* she wondered. No answer came.
That evening, she returned home to find James waiting.
“Hey,” he said, pressing a tense kiss to her forehead.
“You seem… off,” she ventured.
“Come here.” He led her to the kitchen, then slid his phone across the table. “Look.”
A photo filled the screen. Her and Daniel. Embracing. The moment he’d kissed her—captured from a hidden angle.
“Your *mother* did this—” Emily’s voice cracked.
“Yes, she sent it. But that’s *you* in the photo. You let him touch you. I can’t ignore that,” James said, ice in his tone.
“You don’t trust me?” Tears blurred her vision.
“I don’t know *what* to believe. Wedding’s off. I’m leaving.” He grabbed his duffel bag and walked out.
Alone. Again. Like some cruel cycle. Every time she trusted, hoped, dared to love—someone ripped it away. She sat at the kitchen table, replaying James’ words, Margaret’s sneer, Daniel’s calculating gaze. That damned photo.
*Maybe I’m cursed. Or just not meant to be happy.* The storm outside battered the windows, a relentless echo of the tempest in her chest.
