**The Shadow of Unfulfilled Dreams**
Emily sat in a cosy café in the heart of London, sipping her tea while her best friend Charlotte eyed her with suspicion, stirring her cappuccino absentmindedly.
“You’re acting strange today,” Charlotte squinted. “Out with it—what’s happened?”
“Oliver proposed,” Emily murmured, but the smile on her lips held none of the joy one might expect.
“Seriously? Finally!” Charlotte perked up, then frowned at her friend’s expression. “Why aren’t you over the moon? You’ve waited *years* for this!”
“I turned him down,” Emily’s voice wavered as she looked away.
“*What?*” Charlotte nearly spilled her drink. “You’ve dreamed of this! Oliver’s been by your side forever, and you just—*why?*”
“After what he did, I couldn’t say yes,” Emily replied cryptically, her eyes darkening.
“What did he do?” Charlotte leaned forward, curiosity burning.
Emily took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts, and began to explain. Charlotte listened, stunned, barely believing her ears.
Emily had always imagined love like a scene from a rom-com—grand gestures, passionate declarations, and a life that sparkled with endless romance. Books and films had convinced her that anything less than *cinematic* devotion simply wouldn’t do.
Reality, however, had other ideas. Young, dreamy Emily had learned love the hard way—through heartbreak and melodrama. Her flair for theatrics turned every relationship into a tragic play.
Her first serious boyfriend, William, took up four years of her life. She was just eighteen when they met—wide-eyed, hopelessly smitten. But her fiery emotions crashed against his indifference. They wanted different things, and the intimacy she craved never materialised.
She decided to leave—but not without a dramatic exit. Just like in the films.
At the train station, moments before departure, she stood in the doorway and blurted, “I’m ending things.”
“What? Why?” William looked dumbfounded.
“It’s for the best,” she said coldly, vanishing as the train pulled away.
He sprinted alongside, shouting, “Emily! I love you! Come back!”
She leaned out, delivering her line with icy precision: “Never!”
And so, her first love ended—with all the drama of a soap opera.
A year later, she met Jonathan, a software developer who ticked all her fairytale boxes. He was chivalrous, showering her with roses, weekend getaways, and thoughtful gifts. For two years, everything pointed towards a proposal—until he casually mentioned a job transfer.
“Imagine,” he mused, “we’ll marry, you’ll stay home with the kids, cook my favourite shepherd’s pie…”
Emily went rigid. The mundane future he painted felt like betrayal.
“Not a chance,” she snapped. “I *loathe* shepherd’s pie.”
With that, she walked away—scarf fluttering dramatically—leaving Jonathan heartbroken in her wake.
Plenty of suitors came and went, none sticking around long, until Oliver arrived. Their whirlwind romance became a steady life together, complete with a son. Emily was sure she wanted to marry him—until the years slipped by without a ring.
She tried everything—hints, ultimatums, even staged indifference—but Oliver remained oblivious. Resentment festered. If he *truly* loved her, where was the passion? The grand declaration?
Then came the perfect revenge opportunity.
Oliver invited her to a posh restaurant.
“Why?” she asked, heart leaping with anticipation.
“Just to talk,” he said, annoyingly vague.
Inside, it was everything she’d ever wanted—soft lighting, roses, champagne. After a sip, Oliver began, “Emily, we’ve been together years. Our boy’s nearly five. It’s time we made it official.”
She stayed silent, staring coolly.
“Also,” he added, “I’ve been offered a job abroad—but they’ll only relocate married couples.”
“Married?” Emily scoffed. “*That’s* your reason? What’s in it for *me*?”
He blinked. “What?”
“It’s a *no*,” she said, standing. “We’re done.”
She strode out, relishing the tragic heroine moment. *Just like in the movies.*
Back at the café, Charlotte gaped. “You *wanted* this! You have a *child* together! Are you *mad*?”
“I waited too long,” Emily said bitterly. “He was late.”
“Late to *what*?”
“Prove he loved me *properly*.”
“And that requires… what, fireworks?”
“Obviously!” Emily snapped. “I *deserve* romance! Passion! Not some… *business transaction*! He can jog on!”
“You’ll regret this,” Charlotte sighed.
“I already do,” Emily admitted. “But at least he knows how it feels to be taken for granted.”
“And now what?”
“Dunno. We’ll see…”
When Emily got home, Oliver’s things were gone. *Fine*, she thought. *Let’s see how long he lasts.*
A month passed. No calls, no texts. Doubt crept in. By the second month, she caved and dialled his number—*out of service*. Frantic, she called his office.
“Can I speak to Oliver?” she asked, voice strained.
“He’s gone,” came the reply. “Moved abroad right after the wedding—with his wife. Who’s calling?”
Emily dropped the phone, the world tilting beneath her.
