Leon paced the tiny kitchen like a caged tiger. He rubbed his palms, adjusted the dishes, moved the sugar bowl—searching for stability in the domestic life he’d grown to despise. A monologue looped in his head. *I have to speak up. I have to end this. Enough. I can’t do this anymore.*
Emma would cry, of course. She’d beg him to stay. Tell him how exhausted she was, how hard she tried. Promise they could still fix things. But he knew the truth: it was over. There was nothing left. Just two strangers bound by a mortgage and a fridge. No love, no respect, not even irritation. Just emptiness.
The key turned in the lock. He braced himself, ready to leap off a cliff.
Emma walked in, sinking onto the hallway bench. First thing—she kicked off her shoes. *Those damn new heels.* Her day as a shop assistant in a busy London mall had drained her. Spring had awakened people’s hunger for change—some sought love, others a new dress.
“Hey. Rough day?” Leon asked cautiously.
“Like a dog’s. Didn’t sit down once,” she exhaled without looking up.
“Right. Dinner soon?”
She nodded and headed to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, the stove hummed, pans sizzled, and the room filled with smells Leon no longer found comforting.
He lingered in the doorway, gathering courage. A deep breath.
“Emma…” he began, “we need to talk.”
She turned, still peeling carrots. No surprise. No panic.
“Let’s split,” he blurted. “I can’t do this anymore. We’re strangers. You killed my inspiration. I’m an *artist*, and you—you’re just routine. You demand money, clip my wings, make me small. I won’t live like this.”
It was off-script, but he thought it sounded dramatic. Like an audition monologue.
Emma kept scraping the carrot, then suddenly flung it into the sink, untied her apron, killed the stove, and faced him.
“Fine,” she said evenly. “Let’s. To hell with this life.”
He froze. This wasn’t part of the plan. Where were the tears? The begging?
Before he could react, she poured coffee, grabbed cheese and biscuits, and sat down.
“Em… you’re in shock. I get it. But you felt it too, didn’t you? You cook without heart. Just going through the motions—”
“Yeah. No heart,” she echoed, sipping her coffee.
The script crumbled. He fumbled for lines.
“We’ll need to sort the flat,” he muttered. “And the rest…”
“Funny. I thought you’d vanish the second you broke free. But here you are—worried about the mortgage,” she scoffed. “Keep the flat. Just pay me my half. I’ll move back in with Dad. He’s lonely these days.”
“You’re so cold,” Leon sighed. He’d dreamed of a film career, chasing auditions between shifts as a security guard. Handed over his wages without question. Now—money, paperwork.
He wanted freedom. Instead, he got arithmetic.
“Keep it all,” he said grandly. “Pay me when you can. I’m not a monster.” As if he’d gifted her Windsor Castle.
“Cheers. So… you seeing someone?” Her tone was ice.
“Not important,” he muttered. Let her think he was in demand.
He left, lightheaded with victory. Freedom. A creative life, no chores, no nagging.
Six months later.
Leon hovered at her door, shifting uneasily. Everything had changed. Living with Mum was hell. She berated his divorce, mocked his failed auditions, threw fits when he brought women home. Even a waitress fled after one visit.
Mum was worse than Emma. Far worse.
The final straw? She kicked him out. Convinced she had a new man, they’d rowed. She’d called him a loser, told him to get a *real* job.
Then Emma called. Time to finalise the divorce. And here he was.
He rehearsed his remorse, the pained look, the single dignified tear.
Pressed the bell.
“Hi. Come in,” Emma opened the door. She looked… radiant. Or maybe he just missed her.
He strode into the kitchen like he still belonged. Then froze.
A half-naked bloke in joggers stood at the stove, flipping steaks. Cash piled on the table.
“Who the hell are you?” Leon croaked.
“Max,” the man answered without turning.
“Em… can we talk?” Leon’s voice cracked.
In the living room, he hissed, *”What’s he doing here?”*
“Cooking dinner,” she said flatly.
“What about me?”
“You left.”
Silence. Thick as guilt.
“What if I… came back?”
“No room. Max doesn’t mind my ‘practical’ side. He wants kids. A garden. We’re marrying once the divorce clears.”
“And you?”
“And me.”
“And *me*?” he wailed. “What’s he got that I don’t?”
“You fed me promises,” she said. “He feeds me dinner.”
Sometimes love isn’t about grand dreams—just someone who shows up, pan in hand, when you’re hungry.
