**Shadows of Truth: The End of a Love Story**
Victor Whitmore walked into his flat after a long day at the office on the outskirts of Manchester.
“I’m home!” he called out, stepping into the kitchen where the scent of food hung in the air.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, surprised to see a neatly set table.
“No occasion,” replied his wife, Evelyn, though her voice carried a strange note. “Just couldn’t be bothered to cook, so I ordered sushi.”
“Sushi? I can get behind that!” Victor brightened, shrugging off his coat.
“Well, sit down then,” Evelyn said, then abruptly left the room.
A minute later, she returned with a slip of paper and wordlessly handed it to him.
“What’s this?” Victor asked, but the moment his eyes landed on it, he froze as if struck by lightning.
***
“Hello, it’s the delivery driver,” crackled the intercom, and the screen flickered to show a young bloke in a bright uniform. “The payment didn’t go through yesterday.”
“You’ve got the wrong address,” Evelyn replied coolly. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry, but here’s the receipt—take a look,” the lad pressed a crumpled bit of paper to the camera, jabbing at the address. “I delivered the order myself yesterday. Moonlit Crescent, number 12. A bloke paid by card, but the payment failed. Here’s the copy—just have a look, please.”
The lad looked flustered, apologising after practically every word. Clearly new—not just to deliveries, but to work in general. Evelyn squinted skeptically, then opened the door. The courier stood there, his skinny frame dwarfed by an enormous thermal backpack, making him look like a sparrow weighed down. She nearly smiled but paused when she saw the receipt.
Printed on it: “Error Code: 55. Incorrect PIN.”
“I told you, you’ve got the wrong place,” she repeated. “No one was home yesterday, and we didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry,” the courier flushed. “Payment was taken by a… different woman.”
“Definitely not me,” Evelyn chuckled.
He handed her another slip with the order details. Her eyes skimmed over it: Japanese cuisine, cutlery for two, card payment. Nothing out of the ordinary—except one thing. Victor *hated* sushi. At the bottom was the customer’s name: Victor.
Evelyn felt her pulse hammer in her temples. Only one man lived in this flat—her husband. But “woman”? At 43, she hardly fit the description. Maybe the courier was just being polite? Something still didn’t add up.
“I’ll pay,” she said abruptly. “Where’s your terminal?”
The lad blinked, baffled. He’d expected tears, shouting—like his mum when she’d found out about his dad’s affair. But Evelyn was calm, steel beneath the surface. As she saw him out, she suddenly laughed—a sharp, brittle sound that dissolved into tears. Wiping her face, she grabbed her phone.
“Victor, hi. What time are you finishing work today?” she asked, forcing lightness into her voice.
“Hi. Seven, unless the boss calls another bloody meeting,” he replied. “Why?”
“Thought we could have dinner together.”
“Did your plans fall through?”
“Yeah, I’ll be home all evening. Fancy spending some time together?”
“Sure, but not sure when I’ll be free.”
“No worries, we’ll sort it later. Can’t be bothered to cook—I’ll order in, yeah?”
“Righto.”
Evelyn hung up and opened the wardrobe. Her gaze settled on a black dress with gold trim—the one she’d worn to last year’s Christmas do. *Might as well dress for the occasion*, she thought bitterly.
Back in the hallway, she glanced at the receipt, then dialled the same sushi place, ordering the exact meal from yesterday—cutlery for two.
That evening, the same awkward courier arrived, flustered beyond belief. The moment the payment cleared, he bolted, deciding some family secrets were best left undisturbed.
An hour later, Victor walked in. Evelyn greeted him with a smile, though her eyes betrayed her. She noticed how perfectly he played the dutiful husband—always his tell after late nights or sudden “business trips.”
“Sushi?” Victor frowned at the table.
“Yeah, saw an ad for delivery yesterday,” Evelyn said airily. “Fancied it. I know you don’t like it, so I roasted a chicken for you.”
“It’s fine, I’ll try some,” he said. “Had it at work once—wasn’t bad.”
“Change is good, isn’t it, Victor?” she mused, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Go wash up, I’m starving.”
Victor tensed. Her calm, the sushi, the same restaurant—he didn’t believe in coincidences. But how could she know about last night?
He sat, eyeing her warily. Instead of shouting or blaming, Evelyn simply asked:
“What’s her name?”—her voice steady as she speared a roll with her fork.
Victor choked. Denial was pointless.
“Sophie,” he muttered.
“Pretty name,” Evelyn said lightly. “How long’s it been going on?”
“Eve—”
“Don’t bother with excuses,” she cut in. “Tell me about her. I want to know if it’s serious.”
“Serious?” He paled. “Is this a joke? Why are you so calm?”
“No joke,” she laughed, though her voice wavered. “So, tell me. Who is she?”
“She’s thirty,” he exhaled. “Doubt it’ll last…”
“Why? Flighty? Taken in by a man with a steady job?” Evelyn held his gaze, unflinching.
Her expression darkened with pain.
“No, she’s… decent,” Victor mumbled.
Praising his mistress to his wife felt absurd.
“So what’s the issue?” Evelyn pressed.
“What d’you mean?”
“You like her—I can hear it. You don’t talk like that about flings. I’ll give you a divorce. No fuss. We can sort the assets now.”
“Eve, are you alright?” Victor stared, unnerved.
Her calm terrified him. He’d braced for screaming, threats—the usual. But Evelyn was unreadable.
“Victor, I don’t love you,” she said suddenly. “Haven’t for years. And god, it feels good to say it. You keep coming back, and I keep letting you. We should’ve ended this ages ago. But you won’t leave—principles, or whatever. Let me go. I’m letting you go.”
Victor went still. They’d fought, made up, but divorce? He’d assumed she’d crumble without him. Truth was, he couldn’t picture life alone either.
They’d married at eighteen, known each other since childhood. This was all they knew. The unknown scared him.
But this morning, when the courier showed that receipt, Evelyn realised: her love for Victor had faded. The truth was as simple as dust on a shelf—just wipe it away.
“Maybe we’re rushing?” Victor ventured. “Midlife crisis?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I was *relieved* today, learning you’d been with someone else. Hurt first, then… free. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Sorry. I think… I don’t love you either,” he admitted.
“Let’s toast to that,” Evelyn smiled, gesturing at the table.
She returned with paper and pen.
“While you eat, let’s list who gets what.”
*Easy as wiping away dust*, she thought, scribbling. Victor, watching her, began talking about Sophie—not as a mistress, but as someone he felt unburdened with. Like confiding in an old friend.
The lesson? Love doesn’t always end with fire. Sometimes it just… stops. And the quietest goodbyes cut deepest.
