The End of Love, The Dawn of a Dream
The silence between them was heavy.
“I’m leaving, Thomas. Don’t even try to stop me,” Emily clutched an old paintbrush with a worn wooden handle, as if it were a talisman. Behind her, on the easel, an unfinished canvas dried—a crimson sunset, fractured by dark strokes.
“Leaving? For what? Your paints and brushes?” Thomas laughed, but his voice was sharp with anger. “You’re nothing without me, Emily. Nothing. Who’d even want your scribbles?”
She looked at him—the man who once promised her stars but now stole even her light. His face, once so familiar, now twisted with contempt. Emily took a deep breath, feeling resolve flood her veins, and walked out, slamming the door. The wind caught her hair; in her chest burned something new—freedom.
***
Mornings in their little town smelled of dew, freshly cut grass, and chimney smoke. Emily woke to the song of starlings and glanced habitually at the easel in the corner. The blank canvas stared back, silent and accusing—like an old friend she’d betrayed. Today, Thomas was supposed to take her to an exhibition in the city. She smiled, remembering his words from two years ago.
“You’re brilliant, Em,” he’d said, holding her in their tiny rented flat. The lamplight had spilled over her sketches on the table. “I’ll help you show the world. You’ll shine.”
She’d believed him—until his promises dissolved into jabs. “Stop wasting time with your doodles,” “Think about starting a family,” “Who even buys paintings?” Each dig left a mark, like ink splashed on fresh paper, and Emily tucked her brushes away more and more.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Thomas strode in, crisply dressed in an ironed shirt and expensive cologne. “Breakfast’s ready. Mum called—she wants us for lunch.”
“What about the exhibition?” Emily sat up, pushing tangled blonde hair from her face.
“What exhibition?” He frowned, adjusting his tie. “Em, we’ve got things to do. Mum needs to discuss the house repairs, and I have work. Maybe another time?”
“But you promised—” Her voice wavered, then died at the sight of his irritated scowl.
“Not now, Emily. Enough of your nonsense,” he snapped, leaving cologne lingering in the air.
She swallowed the disappointment. Always “later,” “not now,” “someday.” Her dreams dissolved in his plans like watercolour in rain. Slipping on an old jumper, she went to the kitchen, where his coffee and toast sat cold—care as mechanical as clockwork.
***
Emily grew up where art was “a waste.” Their creaky terraced house smelled of damp. Her mother, exhausted from shifts at the textile factory, would mutter, “Can’t eat drawings.” Her dad, always tinkering with rusted cars in the shed, just shook his head at her sketches.
“Emily, more scribbling?” Her mum peeked into the attic where ten-year-old Emily sat with her sketchbook, wiping charcoal on her apron. “Should be peeling potatoes.”
“It’s not scribbles, Mum,” Emily whispered, hiding the sunset she’d drawn from her window. “It’s me.”
Her mum sighed and left, mumbling about “foolishness.” The only one who saw her spark was her art teacher, Mrs. Wilkins—a silver-haired woman in bright scarves, who’d guide her pencil like holding a sparrow.
“You’ve a gift, Emily,” she’d say, studying her work. “Don’t let anyone snuff it out. Promise?”
“I promise.” Emily’s heart would race.
But after school, reality crushed her dreams of art college. Her mum insisted on a “proper job,” so Emily studied accounting. There, she met Thomas—the charming son of a local businessman, with a smile that melted frost. He seemed like her escape.
“You’ll be my muse,” he’d whispered on their first date, kissing her hand by the old fountain in the park. “I’ll make you happy.”
She believed him. They married within a year, moved into his parents’ house, and she folded herself into a new life. But with time, Thomas made it clear her place was the kitchen, not a studio. Her paints gathered dust; her easel became furniture.
***
“Em, where are you?” Thomas’s voice snapped her from memories. She stood at the stove, stirring stew while half-finished paintings haunted her. The smell of onions mixed with exhaustion.
“Here,” she forced a smile, drying her hands. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
“Good. I’m popping to the office, back in an hour.” He eyed the stove. “Oh—Mum keeps asking about kids. Time to start, yeah?”
Emily nodded, her throat tight. Kids? She’d love them—but each time Thomas mentioned it, her dreams slipped further away, like someone locking her in a cage and throwing the key into the murky river outside town.
“Thomas… what if I painted again?” She watched his back. “Maybe take a class or—”
“Paint?” He turned, lip curling. “Seriously, Em? It’s childish. Focus on dinner. Mum’s coming round—wants your roast.”
She stayed silent, something hardening inside. That night, after his mum left, Emily tidied their room. Opening Thomas’s wardrobe, she found his forgotten phone. A message flashed: “Miss you. When will you ditch that mouse?” Photos followed—a brunette in a sleek dress, grinning like she owned the world.
“Em, I’m home!” Thomas called.
She wiped her tears, plastered on a smile, but inside, everything collapsed.
***
The next day, Emily met her mate Sarah at the Riverside Café. Sarah, a barista with a contagious laugh, listened as Emily poured out her heart.
“He’s cheating, Sarah. And he—he laughs at my art.”
“Em, listen,” Sarah squeezed her hand. “You deserve better. Remember how you glowed when you painted? Go back to it!”
“How? No time, no money. And Thomas—”
“Sod Thomas!” Sarah slapped the table. “Start small. There’s a local art fair soon. Submit your work. If he moans—tell him to bugger off!”
Emily hesitated. “What if no one likes it?”
“What if they do?” Sarah grinned. “You were always a fighter. Remember sketching sunsets on napkins by the river? Where’s that girl?”
Emily smiled, recalling those summers. That night, she pulled her dusty easel from the cupboard, uncapped her paints. The smell—turpentine and oil—hit her like a memory. For the first time in years, her hands didn’t shake.
***
A week later, Emily gathered three canvases—a riverscape, Sarah’s portrait, an abstract sunrise—and went to the arts centre. The lobby buzzed with artists. She felt out of place—until a voice called:
“Emily? Is that you?” Mrs. Wilkins stood by the desk, older but just as bright-eyed. “I’m here as a judge. Let me see your work, love.”
Emily unfolded her paintings. Mrs. Wilkins studied them, then beamed.
“These are lovely, dear. Apply—I’ll help.”
For the first time in years, someone believed in her. But at home, Thomas sneered at her paints.
“Still doodling? Make dinner—I’m starving.”
“I cook, Thomas. But this is my life. I won’t bury it.”
“Your life?” He scoffed. “Your life is me, our home. Not this mess.”
“It’s not a mess. It’s me.”
He rolled his eyes and left. But Emily knew—there was no going back.
***
Home became unbearable. Thomas grew colder; his words cut. Emily packed quietly—her clothes, her paintings, her dreams. Sarah helped her rent a tiny studio by the river. Mrs. Wilkins got her into the fair without submission.
The day she left, Thomas came home early. He saw her bags, her easel, and turned purple.
“You’re really leaving? You’re nothing without me!”
“I’m going, Thomas. Don’t stop me.”
She walked out. That evening, in her studio, she painted the sunset—just like the ones from her childhood.
***
The fair changed everything. The gallery hummed; her paintings sold. A gallerist offered her a contract. Mrs. Wilkins glowed. Sarah whooped over wine.
“Em, you’re a star!”
Emily smiled but thought of the girl who sketched in attics, the wife who’d vanished—and the woman holding a catalogue with her name.
***
A month later, Thomas left town with his brunette. His mum called, begging Emily to return.
“I am home,” she said, studying her studio walls. “I always was.”
Now, Emily teaches art at the local college. Her paintings sell; she illustrates books. She met someone new—gentle, kind, who loves her art, not stifles it. They drink coffee, laugh, talk about colours.
But most of all, she’s learnedAnd as she painted her final stroke on a canvas bathed in golden light, she realized the sunset wasn’t an ending—it was just the beginning.
