Sunset of Love, Dawn of Dreams
Silence lingered between them. The only sound was the faint creak of the wooden floorboards beneath her feet.
“I’m leaving, Daniel. And don’t try to stop me,” Emily said, clutching an old paintbrush with a worn handle like a talisman. Behind her, on the easel, an unfinished canvas dried—a crimson sunset, torn by dark strokes.
“Leaving? Where? To your paints and brushes?” Daniel laughed, but his voice carried an edge of anger. “You’re nothing without me, Emily. Nothing. Who’d even look at your daubs?”
She stared at him—the man who once promised her the stars but now stole even the light from her. His face, once so familiar, twisted with contempt. Emily inhaled deeply, feeling resolve flood her veins, and walked out, slamming the door behind her. The wind tangled her hair; in her chest burned something new—freedom.
***
Mornings in their little town smelled of dew, fresh-cut grass, and chimney smoke. Emily woke to the song of sparrows outside and glanced at the blank canvas on the easel in the corner. It stared back, silent and accusing, like an old friend she’d betrayed. Today, Daniel had promised to take her to an exhibition in the city, and she smiled, remembering his words two years ago.
“You’ve got real talent, Em,” he’d said, pulling her close in their tiny rented flat. The lamplight had caught her sketches scattered across 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 on those scribbles,” “Time to think about family,” “Who even wants your pictures?” Each word left a mark, like a blot on clean paper, until Emily tucked her brushes away for good.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Daniel strode in, already dressed in a crisp shirt smelling of expensive cologne. “Breakfast’s ready. Mum called—wants us for lunch.”
“What about the exhibition?” She 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’ve got work. Maybe next time?”
“But you promised—” Her voice wavered, but she stopped at the irritation tightening his brow.
“Don’t start, Emily. I’ve had enough of your whims,” he snapped, leaving behind a trail of cologne.
She nodded to herself, swallowing the disappointment. It was always the same: “later,” “next time,” “not now.” Her dreams dissolved into his plans like watercolour in rain. Pulling on an old jumper, she headed to the kitchen, where Daniel’s toast and coffee sat cold. Even his care felt mechanical now, like a duty done without heart.
***
Emily grew up in a house where art was frivolous. Their narrow terrace on the town’s edge creaked with every step, smelling of damp. Her mother, exhausted from shifts at the textile factory, would say, “Pictures won’t put food on the table.” Her father, always tinkering with rusty cars in the garage, just shrugged when she showed him her sketches.
“Emily, more of your scribbles?” Her mother peeked into the attic, where the ten-year-old sat with her sketchbook, wiping charcoal on her apron. “Should be peeling potatoes.”
“They’re not scribbles, Mum,” Emily whispered, hiding her drawing of yesterday’s sunset. “It’s me.”
Her mother sighed and left, muttering about “silly dreams.” The only one who saw something in her was Mrs. Whitaker, her art teacher—a silver-haired woman who always wore bright scarves and adjusted Emily’s grip on the pencil as gently as holding a bird.
“You’ve a gift, Emily,” she’d say, studying her sketches. “Don’t let anyone smother it. Promise?”
“I promise,” Emily would whisper, heart racing.
But after school, dreams of art college crashed against reality. Her mother insisted on a “proper” job, so Emily studied accounting. There, she met Daniel—the charming son of a local businessman, whose smile could melt ice. 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 began a new life. But with each passing month, Daniel reminded her that her place was the kitchen, not a studio. Her paints gathered dust; her easel became furniture.
***
“Em, where are you?” Daniel’s voice yanked her from memories. She stood at the stove, stirring vegetable stew, haunted by half-finished paintings. The smell of onions and carrots mixed with her exhaustion.
“Here,” she forced a smile, wiping her hands. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Good. I’m popping to the office, back in an hour.” He glanced at the stove. “Oh, and Em… Mum asked again about kids. Time’s ticking, yeah?”
Emily nodded, but her throat tightened. Children? She’d love them—but every time Daniel mentioned it, her dreams felt farther away, like someone locking her in a cage and tossing the key into the murky river beyond town.
“Daniel, what if I painted again?” she ventured, watching his back. “Maybe take a class, or—”
“Paint?” He turned, lips curling. “Seriously, Em? That’s kid stuff. Just focus on dinner. Mum wants beef stew tonight.”
She stayed silent, something inside her hardening. That evening, after her mother-in-law left, Emily tidied their room. Opening Daniel’s wardrobe to fold shirts, she found his forgotten phone. The screen lit up—messages from a “Katie” glared: “When will you dump that mouse?” “Miss you, come over.” Photos followed—a dark-haired girl in a tight dress, smiling like she owned the world.
“Emily, I’m home!” Daniel called from the hall.
She shoved the phone back, wiped her tears, and met him with a stiff smile. But inside, everything crumbled. Dinner passed in silence, only cutlery clinking as Daniel talked work, blind to her hollow stare.
***
The next day, Emily met her friend Lucy at The Riverside Café. Lucy, a barista with a laugh like sunshine, always knew how to lift her spirits. At their window table, Emily finally broke.
“He’s cheating on me,” her voice trembled, fingers shredding a napkin. “I saw the texts. And he—he laughs at my art.”
“Em, listen,” Lucy squeezed her hand. “You deserve better than that prat. Remember how you glowed when you painted? Go back to it.”
“But how?” Emily shook her head. “No time, no money. And Daniel—”
“Stuff Daniel!” Lucy slapped the table. “Start small. There’s a local artists’ exhibit soon. Submit your work. If he moans, tell him to sod off!”
“An exhibit?” Emily hesitated. “I haven’t painted properly in years. What if no one likes them?”
“What if they do?” Lucy grinned. “Em, you were always fierce. Remember sneaking to the river to sketch sunsets? Where’s that girl now?”
Emily smiled, recalling barefoot summers when the world felt endless. Lucy’s words sparked something. That night, she pulled her dusty easel from the cupboard and opened her paint box. The smell of linseed oil hit her—a greeting from the past. For the first time in years, her hands didn’t shake. On the canvas, her childhood sunsets returned—scarlet, gold, brimming with hope.
***
A week later, Emily took the plunge. She brought three paintings—a riverscape, Lucy’s portrait, an abstract sunset—to the town’s arts centre. The building smelled of polish and old wood, artists crowding the lobby. She felt out of place—until a voice called her name.
“Emily? Is that you?” Mrs. Whitaker stood by the front desk, just as bright-eyed, her silver hair wispier beneath a floral scarf.
“Mrs. Whitaker!” Emily nearly dropped her canvases. “You’re here?”
“Where else would I be?” The older woman smiled. “I’m on the judging panel. Show me what you’ve brought, love.”
Emily unfolded her work. Mrs. Whitaker studied them, adjusting her glasses.
“These are wonderful,” she said finally. “There’s soul in them. You must enter. And—I’ll help you with the submission. Trust me.”
Tears pricked Emily’s eyes. For the first time in years, someone believed in her. She floated home—only for the joy to fade. Daniel had seen her easel and paints strewn about.
“Emily, back to your doodling?” He crossed his arms, voice dripping disdain. “Dinner won’t cook itself.”
“It’s cooking, Daniel,” she said, stirring paint. “But this is my life. I won’t bury it.”
“Your life?” He scoffed. “Your life is me, our home, our future kids. Not thisAs the years passed, Emily’s paintings graced galleries across the country, but she never forgot the girl who once drew sunsets on an old attic floor, and every brushstroke still carried the quiet triumph of that first step out the door.
