Sophie stepped out of the office just as the lift arrived, and people began piling in.
“Wait!” she called out, hurrying forward.
At the end of the workday, just like in the mornings, catching the lift was nearly impossible. Sophie squeezed in at the last second, brushing against the man in front of her so the doors could close behind her.
“Sorry,” she murmured, turning her head to the side—otherwise, his chin would have been right at her forehead. He smelled faintly of aftershave.
“No worries.”
They stood pressed together all the way down to the ground floor.
When the doors finally opened, Sophie stepped back out, and the man gently guided her aside with a hand on her arm so she wouldn’t get jostled by the crowd. It felt almost like a dance. Before she could thank him properly, her friend Charlotte appeared beside her.
“Going home? I can drive you.”
Sophie got distracted, never managing a proper look at the man or a proper goodbye.
“No, I’ll walk. Need some air.”
They stepped outside. A light drizzle was falling, people shuffling past with umbrellas.
“It’s raining. Wait here, I’ll pull the car around.”
“Thanks, Lottie, but I’ll manage.” Sophie dug out her umbrella from her bag.
“Suit yourself,” Charlotte said, eyeing her suspiciously.
Sophie waved her off, popped open the umbrella, and merged into the stream of car-less colleagues rushing home. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, and if she was honest, she wasn’t eager to get back.
The umbrella was a nuisance, forcing her to dodge others’ and fend off puddles. Eventually, she closed it and tucked it away. Buds had swelled on the trees, and in places, tender new leaves were already unfurling. That fleeting moment of spring—she wanted to remember it.
As she walked, she wondered how she’d ended up like this again—not in the wrong place, but with the wrong person. Not geographically, but romantically. She lived in a flat left to her by her grandmother, free of rent or mortgage. And somehow, that flat seemed to attract the wrong kind of men. Too late, she’d realized that.
So she dragged her feet, walking slowly, just to delay going home where Lewis was waiting. Or rather, not her—just the dinner she’d have to cook. And it had all started so beautifully…
***
Growing up, it had just been her and Mum. Dad left when Sophie was nine. By tenth form, Mum had remarried, and a strange man moved into their house. Sophie was used to walking around in shorts and a tank top. Mum scolded her—it wasn’t proper to parade around half-dressed in front of an adult. Sophie had already been self-conscious around him; now, she avoided leaving her room unless necessary. Gran solved the problem by inviting Sophie to live with her so the “newlyweds” could adjust. It suited everyone.
Sophie was in her first year at uni when Gran passed, leaving her alone. At school, she’d had a crush on James—tall, sporty, with girls always flocking around him. She never stood a chance. But one day, he sat next to her at a lecture, then walked her home.
Within a month, he was living with her. Mum tried warning her it wouldn’t end well, but Sophie wouldn’t listen. If Mum could arrange her life however she wanted, then Sophie could too. They fought.
For nearly two years, they played house. Uni was ending, graduation approaching. Sophie was sure James would propose. But after the ceremony—after the diplomas and the champagne—nothing. Worse, he told her he was leaving.
“Going home?” she asked. “When will you be back?”
“I won’t be. I’m going home first, then to London. My uncle’s got a job lined up for me.”
“And me?”
“Soph, come on. We had a good thing, yeah? I’m grateful—you saved me from halls. But I’ve got to move on. I don’t want to get married yet. I want to build a career, buy a flat in London, see the world. I never promised you anything, did I?”
“We could’ve gone together—”
“No. We couldn’t.”
As he spoke, Sophie realized she didn’t know him at all. She cried, begged, swore she loved him.
“I don’t love you. It was convenient. You’re sweet—you’ll meet someone decent, get married, have kids. But that’s not what I want. Not now. Thanks, but this is it. Sorry.”
He left. Sophie cried into her pillow for three days straight. Mum came over, didn’t say *I told you so*, just held her. The worst part? James had never loved her. He’d used her—for the flat. That was the one good thing his leaving did: she and Mum finally made peace.
***
It took Sophie ages to recover. She didn’t date, didn’t meet anyone. And work was mostly women anyway.
At the bus stop in the mornings, she often saw the same guy. They’d take the same bus, ride together for a few stops. After a while, they started smiling, nodding, even exchanging small talk. She liked their easy, no-strings connection. Strangers, but not quite. She’d rush to catch the bus, wondering if she’d see him, her heart skipping when she did.
Then one day, he vanished. She waited, even missed her bus a few times hoping he’d show up. He never did.
Months later, crossing the road after work, she spotted him. Her pulse jumped. She’d thought she’d never see him again.
“You’ve been gone. Were you ill?”
“Got made redundant. No more office runs. Freelancing now, but it’s hard—Mum needs help, my sister distracts me. Job hunting’s going nowhere. I wanted to see you. Didn’t even know your name.”
“Sophie.”
“Lewis. My mates call me Lew.”
They fell into step, shifting to first-name terms before she knew it.
“Will I see you again?” she asked outside her building.
“Course. I live nearby—I’ll wait for you at the stop.”
And he did. Often. He’d walk her home, chatting. Sophie kept her living situation quiet; she didn’t want to be used again. But Lewis never invited himself in, never pushed. He wasn’t in halls—he lived with his mum and younger sister.
She liked him. Liked how low-pressure it was. He was ordinary, not drop-dead like James. And she liked that, too. At twenty-five, she wanted love—to give and receive it. The past could stay buried.
One rainy evening, she invited him in. Later, she suggested he move in—quieter for work, no more running to the bus stop to meet her.
Lewis never found a “proper” job. Said he earned more online—editing videos, building websites. Weekends whenever he fancied.
Sophie left for work; Lewis stayed home. Sometimes peeled potatoes, boiled pasta. Even went shopping occasionally. He proposed quickly, but they delayed the wedding. Some money went to his family, some saved up. She liked that.
But more often now, she’d come home to find him sprawled on the sofa, a beer in hand. He stopped cooking, shopping—too busy with “urgent” work. Except the money never seemed to grow.
“Mum’s ill—had to help with meds. Sis has prom coming up—had to chip in. You know how pricey everything is.”
She noticed he’d stopped shaving daily. Why bother? Who’d see him? (Not her, apparently.) Getting him out of the house became a battle. More and more, he wore tracksuit bottoms outside.
“I asked you to hang the laundry. Now it’s all creased,” she snapped one evening.
“Just ’cause I work from home doesn’t mean I’m your maid. I earn, no weekends, and if I want a beer and footy, I’ll have it. You nag like I owe you my life.”
Fights multiplied. Wedding talk died. Sophie doubted she even wanted it. Again, she’d been fooled.
When she asked how much he’d saved (by her math, enough for three weddings and a Bahamas honeymoon), he exploded—it was *his* money, *his* family, and she wasn’t his wife to demand answers.
He backpedalled later, but the damage was done.
After work, Sophie dreaded going home. A sink full of dishes, bin overflowing with beer cans, cooking dinner *and* tomorrow’s lunch. Comfort had made Lewis soft—literally. He’d gained weight, grown a gut. Their heart-to-hearts had dried up; every attempt ended in fights.
Tonight, despite the rain, she walked slowly, rehearsing the breakup speech. How to say it was over. That love was gone.
She couldn’t just kick him out. How did people stay like this for years?
“Soph!”
She barely registered her name, lost in thoughtAnd just like that, Sophie realized that sometimes the hardest truth to face—being alone—was better than settling for the wrong love.
