The Shadow of Broken Dreams
Eleanor sat in a cosy café in the heart of London, across from her dear friend Charlotte. Stirring her tea, Charlotte studied Eleanor intently, as if trying to unravel some unsolved mystery.
“You seem off today,” Charlotte remarked, squinting. “Out with it—what’s happened?”
“William proposed,” Eleanor said softly, but her smile carried a hidden bitterness.
“Truly? At last!” Charlotte brightened, then frowned. “Where’s the joy? You’ve waited years for this!”
“I refused him,” Eleanor’s voice wavered as she looked away.
“What?!” Charlotte nearly spilled her tea. “You dreamed of this! William has been by your side all this time, and you… Why?”
“After what he did, I couldn’t say yes,” Eleanor answered cryptically, her eyes darkening with memory.
“What did he do?” Charlotte leaned forward, curiosity burning.
Eleanor drew a deep breath, gathering herself, and began to speak. Charlotte listened, scarcely believing her ears.
Eleanor had always imagined love like scenes from a romantic novel—bouquets, passionate declarations, grand sacrifices. She saw herself as the heroine, living in a perpetual whirlwind of emotion. These illusions, fed by books and films, became her only script for love.
But life proved far more complicated. Young Eleanor, full of ideals, learned love through trial and heartbreak. Her dramatic nature lent every romance a theatrical edge.
Her first love lasted four years. She was just eighteen when they met—naïve, adoring, navigating her first relationship. But her fervor clashed with his indifference. Their visions of love differed, and the intimacy she longed for never came.
She resolved to leave—but not without a cinematic exit. Claiming she needed solitude by the sea to “find herself,” she lured him to the station, feigning departure. As the train began to move, she stood in the doorway and declared,
“I’m leaving you.”
“Why? What’s happened?” he stammered.
“It’s for the best,” she said, vanishing into the carriage.
The train pulled away. He chased it, shouting,
“Eleanor! I love you! Marry me!”
She leaned out, coldly replying,
“Never!”
And so, with melodramatic flair, her first love ended.
A year later, she met Thomas, a solicitor. Gallant as a storybook suitor, he showered her with roses, gifts, and trips. She felt cherished, envied even, imagining herself in white beside him. For two years, all pointed to a wedding—until the day Thomas announced a transfer abroad.
“Just think,” he mused, “we’ll marry, you’ll keep house, raise our children, cook my favorite shepherd’s pie—”
Eleanor stiffened. His vision of domesticity was far from her dreams of eternal romance.
“Unlikely,” she snapped. “I detest shepherd’s pie.”
She turned on her heel and strode off, envisioning her scarf fluttering dramatically as he stood, heartbroken.
Other suitors came and went, until William. Their bond deepened swiftly; they moved in together, had a son, and Eleanor felt certain she’d be his wife. William was steady, devoted—but lacked passion.
She waited for his proposal. Years passed, yet he remained silent. Five years in, their son was growing, yet no ring graced her finger. Resentment festered. She transformed—no longer the dreamy girl, but a woman fighting for her fantasy.
She tried everything—tenderness, manipulation, provocation—to make him act. Yet he seemed oblivious. Finally, she saw her life anew: William didn’t cherish her. True love should burn brightly, yet he wouldn’t even marry her!
Her hurt turned vengeful. She wouldn’t merely leave—she’d make him ache as she had.
The moment came five years later. William invited her to dinner.
“Why?” she asked, though her pulse quickened.
“Just to talk,” he deflected.
“Fine,” she agreed, inwardly triumphant.
The restaurant was perfect—flowers, soft candlelight. After wine, he began,
“Eleanor, we’ve built a life. Our son’s five now. It’s time we made it official.”
She stared, silent. He pressed on,
“Also, I’ve been offered work abroad—but only married men are considered. With families.”
“Families?” She smirked. “Convenient for you. What’s in it for me?”
“What?” He faltered, expecting joy.
“What do I gain?” Her voice turned glacial. “Nothing. I won’t marry you.”
Silence fell.
“Explain,” he demanded.
“You didn’t understand in ten years—you won’t now,” she said, rising. “It’s over.”
Eleanor swept out, relishing her dramatic exit like a silver-screen finale.
“I don’t understand!” Charlotte cried in the café. “You wanted this! You have a son! Why?”
“I waited too long,” Eleanor said bitterly. “He was too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“To prove his love was real.”
“Must love be proven?”
“Of course!” Eleanor flared. “I deserve fire, poetry, not dull routine! He treated marriage like a business deal. Beneficial for him—not me! Let him go hang!”
“You’ll regret this,” Charlotte warned.
“I already do,” Eleanor admitted. “But I’m glad he felt the sting of rejection.”
“What now?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see…”
Returning home, Eleanor found William’s belongings gone. “Good,” she thought. “Let’s see how long he lasts.”
A month passed. No word. Her certainty wavered. By the second month, she cracked and dialed his number—no answer. She called his office.
“May I speak to William?” she asked evenly.
“He’s abroad,” the receptionist replied. “Left right after his wedding. With his wife. Who’s calling?”
Eleanor dropped the phone, the floor vanishing beneath her.
