Driven by the Heart
Emily stepped out of the office and saw the elevator doors slide open, a small crowd already filing inside.
“Wait!” she called, breaking into a hurried jog.
Catching the lift at the end of the workday was as tricky as mornings. She slid in at the last second, nudging past others, pressing herself against the chest of a man standing ahead of her just so the doors could close behind her.
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning her head to the side—otherwise, his chin would brush against her forehead. He smelled pleasantly of cologne.
“No worries.”
They rode down to the ground floor like that, pressed close.
At last, the lift stopped, the doors parting. Emily stepped backwards out of the cab, and the man followed, steadying her hand so she wouldn’t trip, guiding her aside before the exiting crowd could jostle her. It felt like a dance. Before she could exhale or thank him properly, her friend Charlotte appeared beside her.
“Going home? I can give you a lift.”
Distracted, Emily never got a proper look at the man—or the chance to thank him.
“No, I’ll walk. Need some air.”
Outside, a fine drizzle misted the pavement; umbrellas bobbed past.
“It’s raining. Wait here, I’ll pull the car round.”
“Charlie, really, I’ll walk.” Emily dug her umbrella from her bag.
“Suit yourself,” Charlotte said, eyeing her with suspicion.
After a quick goodbye, Emily popped open her umbrella and merged into the stream of car-less colleagues hurrying home. She wanted solitude, time to think—and if she was honest, no real desire to return to the flat.
The umbrella was a nuisance, steering her away from strangers’ domes of nylon, forcing her to dodge. She snapped it shut and stuffed it away. The trees and bushes swelled with budding life, new leaves unfurling in fragile clusters. That fleeting moment of spring—she wanted to memorize it.
Emily walked, wondering how she’d ended up here again—not in the right place, not with the right person. Not geographically, but emotionally. She lived in a flat left to her by her grandmother, no mortgage or loans to worry about. That security, she realized too late, was exactly what drew the wrong sort of men.
Now she stretched out the journey, walking slowly just to delay arriving home—where Vincent waited. Or rather, where dinner waited for *him*, which she was expected to cook. And it had all started so beautifully…
***
She and her mum had lived alone after her dad walked out when she was nine. By the time Emily was in sixth form, her mother remarried. A stranger moved in, and Emily, used to padding around in shorts and a tank top, was scolded for parading half-dressed in front of a grown man. She’d already been awkward around him; now she barely left her room unless necessary. Her grandmother solved it by inviting Emily to stay—so the “newlyweds” could settle in. Everyone agreed.
She was at uni when her grandmother passed, leaving her truly alone. There, she’d fancied Paul. Every girl did. A star athlete, handsome—Emily stood little chance. Then one lecture, he sat beside her. Weeks later, he was living with her.
Her mum warned her it wouldn’t end well, but Emily refused to listen. She wasn’t interfering in her mother’s love life—so why should her mother meddle in hers? She was an adult, in love, and everything would be fine. They argued, bitterly.
For nearly two years, they played house. Uni was ending; dissertation defenses loomed. Emily was sure Paul would propose. But after graduation—after the celebrations—he didn’t. Worse, he told her he was leaving.
“Home?” she asked. “When will you be back?”
“I won’t. First home, then London. My uncle’s got a job for me there.”
“And me?”
“Em, come on. We had a good thing, yeah? I’m grateful—you saved me from halls. But I’ve got to move forward. I’m not ready to marry. I want a career, a London flat, to travel. I never promised you anything, did I?”
“We could go together—”
“*We couldn’t.*”
He spoke, and Emily realized she’d never really known him. She cried, swore her love, begged him—
“I don’t love you. It was convenient. You’re sweet, you’ll meet a decent bloke, have kids. But that life’s not for me—not yet. I’m grateful, but we’re done. Sorry.”
He left. She sobbed into her pillow for three days. Her mother came, didn’t say *I told you so*, just held her. The cruelest part? Paul hadn’t loved her. He’d used her—for the flat. The one silver lining: she and her mum reconciled.
***
Emily took ages to recover, avoiding dates, keeping to herself. Work was mostly women anyway.
At the bus stop each morning, she often saw a bloke. They boarded the same bus, rode a few stops together. Soon, they smiled, exchanged hellos like old acquaintances, even shared the odd snippet of chat. She liked it—uncomplicated, no expectations. Strangers, yet not. Mornings, she rushed to the bus, wondering if she’d spot him—her pulse quickening when she did.
Then, suddenly, he vanished. She lingered, scanning the stop each day, even letting her bus go, thinking he might be late. He never reappeared.
Until one evening, crossing the road, she saw him. Her heart leapt. She’d thought he was gone for good.
“Haven’t seen you in ages. Were you ill?”
“Laid off. No more office runs—working remotely now. Tough, though, Mum and sister always needing something. Still job-hunting. Wanted to see you—don’t even know your name.”
“Emily.”
“Vincent. Friends call me Vinnie.”
They walked, chatting, slipping effortlessly into first-name terms.
“Will I see you again?” Emily asked outside her flat.
“Course. I live nearby now—I’ll wait for you at the stop.”
He did, often. Vinnie walked her home, their talks easy. Emily took months to admit she lived alone—afraid of being used again. But he never invited himself over, never pushed. He lived with his mum and younger sister anyway.
She liked him—liked how simple it felt. He was ordinary, not like Paul. At twenty-five, she craved love—to give it, to have it. The past faded fast.
One rainy evening, she invited him in. Later, she suggested he move in—quieter for work, no more bus-stop dashes.
Vinnie never found a job. “Freelancing pays more than an office,” he claimed. Video editing, building websites—weekends whenever he fancied. Emily left for work; Vinnie stayed. Occasionally peeled potatoes, boiled pasta. Sometimes shopped. He proposed quickly—but the wedding got postponed. Some earnings went to his family, some saved. It sounded sweet.
Then she’d come home to find him glued to the telly, beer in hand. The potatoes went unpeeled, shopping undone. Too busy, he said—big projects, big payouts. Except the money never showed.
“Mum’s ill—medicine’s expensive. Sister’s got prom—needs a dress. You know how it is.”
Emily noticed he’d stopped shaving daily. Why bother? Who’d see him? She didn’t count. Leaving the flat became a chore—he lived in joggers now.
“I asked you to hang the laundry. Now it’s creased to hell,” she snapped once.
“Working from home doesn’t mean maiding for you. I’m earning here—no weekends either. If I crack a beer and watch football, I’ve earned it.”
Fights grew frequent. The wedding wasn’t mentioned. Emily doubted she wanted it anyway. Another mistake.
When she asked how much he’d saved—enough for three weddings and a Bahamas honeymoon by her math—he exploded. “I don’t owe you reports! My money, my family! You’re not my wife!”
Backpedaling came too late. The make-up was slow, painful.
After work, Emily dawdled. Home meant dirty dishes, beer cans, cooking for two. Vinnie had softened around the middle. Heart-to-hearts died—every attempt ended in shouting.
Tonight, she walked despite the rain, rehearsing the breakup.
“Em!”
She didn’t react.
“*Emily!*”
She turned. A handsome man in a tailored suit, neatly bearded, stepped from a sleek car parked curb-side.
“Been shouting ages. What’s on your mind, beautiful?”
“*Michael?*” She blinked.
“The one and only.”
“Look at you. Unrecognizable.”
“You haven’t changed.”
They fired questions simultaneously—*How are you? Where?*
“Married, a son—starts school next year. Wife’s expecting again, hopefully a girl. Business is…”As he spoke, Emily realized happiness wasn’t lost—just waiting for her to clear the path.