Emily sat at the kitchen table, staring at the ring with a tiny stone Victor had given her. “Just because,” as always. Once, such gifts had made her heart flutter—now they only stirred a dull ache. Nothing felt worse than living with someone you didn’t love…
She and Victor had met at university. He was “that friend”—reliable, quiet, kind. Always there, always ready to help. Emily had never taken him seriously until he started pursuing her. Patiently, persistently. She’d even laughed about him with her girlfriends.
But he didn’t give up.
Eventually, they started dating. Then he moved in. It all happened as if on its own. Only the feelings—the real ones—never woke.
Victor was content. Brewed her chamomile tea, washed her dishes, ironed her dresses. Meanwhile, the sound of his breathing grated on her nerves. He seemed weak, spineless, dull.
Her friends said she was lucky—men like that were rare. But behind her back, they whispered: *Emily doesn’t deserve him. She’s cold, cynical.*
And still, he endured. Even when she flirted with his colleagues. Even when she pushed him away. Even when she snapped one evening, *”Don’t wait up. I’m done.”*
He stood in the doorway, pale, eyes dim. And he didn’t stop her.
Two weeks later, Emily met James—bold, magnetic. They crossed paths in a bar where she, tipsy, was putting on a show at the counter. He sat beside her silently, then said, *”In a year, you’ll regret leaving the one who loved you.”*
She laughed.
With James, it was like a film—fancy restaurants, sleepless nights, lavish gifts. Until the cold stares began, the complaints about her laughter, the disapproval of her clothes. Then came the cheating. And he didn’t even apologize.
*”What did you expect? I never promised anything.”*
Emily stepped out into the rain. Dialed Victor’s number. But she never pressed call.
At home, she dug out old photos—him and her, smiling. His hands on her shoulders, her gaze fixed on him with adoration. Or was it just an act?
Days later, she had a breakdown. Her heart gave out. In the hospital, she saw indifference in Victor’s eyes for the first time.
*”Why did you come?”* she whispered.
*”I don’t know. Habit, I suppose.”*
And he left. But not before leaving chamomiles—the ones she’d once loved more than roses.
*”Why were you afraid of being loved?”* the therapist asked.
Emily swallowed a sob. *”Because it’s a risk. Everyone who loved me left. Dad vanished when I was seven. Mum said, ‘Don’t trust anyone.’ So I tried. Hid behind sarcasm, sharp edges. But Victor got through…”*
She cried then. Softly, as if allowing herself to feel for the first time.
*”Do you want him back?”*
*”More than anything. But he doesn’t want me. And I know why.”*
Two years passed.
She spotted Victor in a café. He sat by the window, flipping through a menu, fingers tapping a familiar rhythm. She approached.
*”Hi. Mind if I join?”*
He nodded. Said nothing. Just watched her carefully.
*”I don’t expect forgiveness. Just wanted to thank you. For who you were. And I’m sorry—I didn’t know how to love.”*
Emily stood and left.
A week later, he texted: *”Let’s try again. But slowly.”*
Now, they don’t live together. They go on dates. Laugh. Sit in silence. Learning to trust all over again.
A magnet on her fridge reads: *”If you’re cold, be warmer.”*
And every *”slowly”* is a step closer—toward feeling loved again. Toward believing she’s capable of it, too.
