**Diary Entry**
Emily sat on the kitchen stool, staring at the ring with the small stone that Victor had recently given her. “Just because,” as usual. Once, such gifts had made her heart flutter; now, they only brought a hollow ache. There was nothing worse than living with someone you didn’t love…
Victor had been the “reliable friend” since university—quiet, kind, always there when she needed him. Emily had never taken him seriously until he started pursuing her. Patiently, relentlessly. She’d even laughed about it with her girlfriends.
But he didn’t give up.
Eventually, they started dating. Then he moved in. It all happened smoothly, as if by accident—except the real feelings never came.
Victor was content. He brewed her chamomile tea, washed her dishes, ironed her dresses. Meanwhile, the sound of his breathing grated on her nerves. To her, he seemed weak, spineless, dull.
Her friends said she was lucky—men like him were rare. But behind her back, they whispered that Emily didn’t deserve him, that she was too cold, too cynical.
Still, he endured. Even when she flirted with his coworkers. Even when she pushed him away. Even when she snapped one evening, “Don’t wait up. I’m leaving. I’m bored of you.”
He stood in the doorway, pale, eyes empty. And he didn’t stop her.
A fortnight later, Emily met James—bold, charismatic. They’d crossed paths in a pub after she’d had one too many and was making a spectacle of herself at the bar. He sat beside her and muttered, “In a year, you’ll regret leaving the man who loved you.”
She laughed.
With James, it was like a film—fancy restaurants, sleepless nights, lavish gifts. Until the cold glares began. The complaints about her laugh. The disdain for her clothes. Then came the cheating. He didn’t even apologize.
“What did you expect? I never promised you anything.”
Emily stepped out into the rain. She dialed Victor’s number but couldn’t bring herself to press call.
At home, she dug out old photos—happy ones, of him holding her shoulders while she gazed up at him with adoration. Or had she just been pretending?
Days later, she collapsed. A breakdown. Her heart gave out. In the hospital, she saw something unfamiliar in Victor’s eyes—not love, but indifference.
“Why did you come?” she whispered.
“Dunno. Habit, I suppose.”
He left. Behind, he left chamomile—the flowers she’d once loved more than roses.
“Why were you so afraid of being loved?” the therapist asked.
Emily swallowed hard. “Because it’s a risk. Everyone who loved me left. My father vanished when I was seven. Mum told me, ‘Never trust anyone again.’ I tried. Hid behind sarcasm, sharp words. But Victor got through…”
She cried. Softly, as if finally allowing herself to feel.
“Do you want him back?”
“More than anything. But he doesn’t want to see me. And I get why.”
Two years passed.
She spotted Victor in a café. By the window, flipping through the menu, tapping out a familiar rhythm with his fingers. She approached.
“Hi. Mind if I sit?”
He nodded. Silent. Watching.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. Just… thank you. For who you were. And I’m sorry I couldn’t love you right.”
She left.
A week later, he texted: *Let’s try again. Slowly.*
They don’t live together now. They go on dates, laugh, sit in silence. Learning to trust again.
Her fridge bears a magnet with a quote: *”If you’re cold, act warmer.”*
Every “slowly” is a step forward—a step toward remembering what it feels like to be loved. And that she’s capable of it too.
*Lesson learned too late: The hardest love to recognize is the one that doesn’t demand anything. The kind that stays even when you push it away—until one day, it doesn’t.*
