*Taking a Chance on Love*
Emma stepped out of her office, just in time to see the lift doors opening and people shuffling in.
“Wait!” she called, breaking into a jog.
Catching the lift at the end of the workday was as tricky as in the mornings. She barely squeezed in last minute, pressing herself against the chest of the man in front of her so the doors could close.
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning her head to the side—otherwise, his chin would’ve brushed her forehead. He smelled faintly of aftershave, warm and pleasant.
“No worries.”
They stood like that all the way down to the ground floor, squeezed together in silence.
When the doors finally slid open, Emma shuffled backward out of the lift. The man followed, steadying her with a light grip on her arm so she wouldn’t stumble—moving her aside just in time before the next wave of people pushed past. It felt almost like a dance. She barely had time to exhale, let alone thank him, before her friend Sophie appeared beside her.
“Going home? I can give you a lift.”
Emma’s attention shifted, leaving her no time to properly look at the man or thank him.
“No, I think I’ll walk. Could do with some air.”
Outside, a light drizzle had started. Pedestrians hurried past under umbrellas.
“It’s raining. Wait here—I’ll bring the car around.”
“Honestly, Soph, I’d rather walk,” Emma said, digging in her bag for her own umbrella.
“Fine, suit yourself,” Sophie huffed, eyeing her suspiciously before heading off.
Emma said her goodbyes, popped open her umbrella, and merged into the foot traffic of commuters. She wasn’t in a hurry to get home—if she was being honest, she didn’t fancy going back at all.
The umbrella was a nuisance. She had to dodge the ones bobbing around her while keeping hers steady. Eventually, she gave up, shoving it back into her bag. The trees lining the street were budding, the first delicate leaves just unfurling. This fleeting moment of spring was something she wanted to remember.
As she walked, she wondered—how had she ended up off course again? Not geographically, but in life, in love. She lived in a flat left to her by her grandmother. No mortgage, no loans. And yet, that very security had drawn the wrong kind of men. Too late, she’d realised that.
So she dragged her feet, taking the long way home—where Owen would be waiting. Not for her, exactly, just for the dinner she’d cook. And it had all started so beautifully…
***
She and her mum had lived alone after her dad left when she was nine. Then, during Emma’s GCSE year, her mum remarried. Suddenly, a stranger was in their house, and Emma could no longer pad around in shorts and a tank top. “It’s not proper, parading around like that in front of another man,” her mum had scolded. Emma, already uncomfortable, now avoided leaving her room unless necessary.
Her grandmother had solved it by inviting Emma to stay with her—give the new couple space to settle. It worked for everyone.
Emma was in her first year of university when her grandmother passed, leaving her alone. She’d fancied a lad named Ryan back then—every girl did. He was fit, popular, way out of her league. But one lecture, he’d sat next to her, then walked her home.
A month later, he’d moved in. Her mum had warned her—”This won’t end well”—but Emma refused to listen. She wasn’t interfering with her mum’s love life, so why should her mum butt into hers? She was an adult. She was in love. It would all work out.
They fought.
For nearly two years, they’d played house—almost a proper couple. Graduation loomed. Emma was sure Ryan would propose. But after their diplomas were signed, sealed, and toasted—nothing. Instead, he told her he was leaving.
“Home?” she’d asked. “When will you be back?”
“I won’t. Going home first, then up to Manchester. My uncle’s got a job lined up for me there.”
“What about me?”
“Em, come on. We had a good thing, right? I’m grateful—you saved me from student digs. But I need to move forward. I don’t want to get married yet. I want to build a career, buy a place, travel. I never promised you anything, did I?”
“We could’ve gone together—”
“We couldn’t.”
As he spoke, Emma realised she didn’t know him at all. She’d cried, begged, pleaded.
“I don’t love you. It was convenient. You’re a good girl—you’ll find someone decent, settle down. But that’s not what I want. Not right now.”
He left. Emma sobbed into her pillow for three days straight. Her mum came, not to say “I told you so,” just to comfort her. The worst part? He’d never loved her. He’d used her. For the flat.
At least it patched things up with her mum. Small mercies.
***
Emma took a long time to recover. She didn’t date. Work was mostly women anyway.
But at the bus stop each morning, she’d started noticing a guy. They’d board the same bus, riding a few stops together. Eventually, they’d smile, nod, exchange a word or two. She liked the easiness of it—strangers, but not quite. Mornings, she’d hurry, wondering if she’d see him. Her heart would skip when she spotted his smile.
Then, suddenly, he vanished. She waited, even missed her bus some days, hoping he’d show. But he never did.
Until one evening, crossing the road, she spotted him. Her pulse leapt.
“Haven’t seen you in ages. Were you ill?” she asked.
“Got made redundant. No more office runs. Freelancing now—harder than it sounds. Mum needs help, my sister distracts me. Still job-hunting.” He smiled. “I wanted to see you. Didn’t even know your name.”
“Emma.”
“Owen. Most call me Oz.”
They walked, chatting, slipping into first names without noticing.
“Will I see you again?” Emma asked outside her building.
“Course. I live nearby—I’ll wait at the stop.”
And he did. He’d meet her, walk her home. Emma kept quiet about living alone—didn’t want history repeating. But Oz never pushed, never angled for an invite. He lived with his mum and sister.
She liked him. Liked the uncomplicated rhythm of it. He was ordinary—not dashing like Ryan. That was part of the appeal. At 25, she wanted love, to love and be loved. The past faded fast.
One rainy evening, she invited him up. Then suggested he move in—quieter for work, no more waiting at bus stops.
But Oz never found a job. “I earn more online,” he claimed. Video editing, building websites. Weekends whenever he fancied.
Emma left for work each morning; Oz stayed. Sometimes he’d peel potatoes, boil pasta. Even shopped occasionally. He’d proposed quickly, but they postponed the wedding. Some money went to his family, some into savings. Emma liked that.
Then she started coming home to find him glued to the telly, beer in hand. The potatoes went unpeeled, the shopping unmade. “Busy,” he’d say. “Big project, big payday.” Yet the savings never grew.
“Mum’s ill—medicine’s expensive. Sister’s prom coming up—needs a dress. You know how it is.”
Emma noticed he’d stopped shaving daily. Why bother? Only she saw him. Harder to drag him outside. More joggers than jeans.
“I asked you to hang the laundry. Now it’s creased to hell,” she snapped one evening.
“Just because I work from home doesn’t mean I’m your housekeeper. I’m earning, no weekends. If I fancy a pint and footy, I’ve earned it.”
They argued more. He stopped mentioning the wedding. Emma started doubting she wanted one. Another mistake?
When she asked how much he’d saved—by her maths, enough for three weddings and a Maldives honeymoon—he exploded. “My money, my business! Got a family to look after! You’re not my wife!”
He backpedalled fast, but the damage was done.
Emma stopped rushing home. Instead: dishes piled high, beer cans overflowing, cooking for two. Oz had softened around the middle. No more heart-to-hearts. Every chat became a row.
Tonight, she walked despite the rain, rehearsing the breakup speech. Couldn’t just kick him out. How did people stay like this for years?
“Em!”
She barely registered her name.
“Hey, Thompson!”
Emma turned. A bloke in a sharp suit, stubble neatly trimmed, climbed out of a BMW by the kerb, grinning.
“BeenShe smiled, stepped into the car, and let the wind carry her toward a future she finally believed in.
