“You’re nothing without me,” the man told me. But a year later, he was begging me for a job in my office.
His words cut through the dimly lit flat like a verdict. Anna stood in the doorway, fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. She stayed silent. Not out of fear. No. It was more like shock—like watching a car crash, horrified but unable to look away.
“Cat got your tongue?” Ian straightened up, tossing her a dismissive glance. “Ten years I carried you. Ten years you hid behind me. And now what? Think you can manage on your own?”
Anna lifted her eyes to his. No tears—just the dull glow of the lamp and something new. Something he’d never seen in her before.
“I already am,” she said quietly.
He laughed. That same confident laugh that once charmed her. Now it just sounded hollow.
“We’ll see,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “A month. I’ll give you a month before you come crawling back.”
The door slammed so hard a photo frame toppled off the shelf. The glass cracked right in the middle—right between their faces.
The first days were strange. The flat’s silence was sharp, not cosy—tense, like a pulled string. Anna caught every shuffle in the hallway, every lift ding, every jingle of keys in someone else’s door.
At dinner, she’d set two places out of habit. In the morning, she’d pour two coffees. And each time she realised, she’d freeze, hands trembling.
*You’re nothing without me.*
The words haunted her. They echoed in the tap’s rush, the fridge’s hum, the clock’s tick. And the worst part? There was truth in them. Who was she? The wife of a successful man—that’s how she’d been introduced at corporate events. The keeper of the perfect home—that’s what friends called her. But without those labels? Who?
Her bank account was dwindling fast. Their shared savings had been drained by Ian’s “business venture” six months prior. All she had left was a laughable sum—two, maybe three months before she’d need to borrow.
Her CV looked pathetic. Education—check. Experience—minimal, from a decade ago. Skills? What was she supposed to write? *Expert shirt ironer. Stain removal specialist. Knows all my husband’s contacts?*
Her phone stayed silent. And not just from employers—friends too. Turned out, most of their “mutual friends” were really just his. They started avoiding her, cancelling plans, fading from her life.
Evenings, Anna sat by the window, watching life rush by outside. People with purpose, with plans. And her? Just empty space.
One night, she dragged a box down from the loft. Inside—her old uni sketches: interiors, blueprints, rough designs. Once, she’d dreamed of crafting spaces where people felt at home. Flipping through the yellowed pages, she felt something stir inside.
“Pathetic,” she muttered, slamming the folder shut.
But the next day, she opened it again.
“Anna? Anna *Collins*? Is that really you?”
A bright voice called out in the supermarket. Marina—her uni mate—looked almost the same, just shorter hair and a new confidence in her eyes.
“Years, love! You haven’t changed a bit!” Marina hugged her. “How are you? Still drawing those magic interiors?”
Anna shook her head.
“Not for ages. Family, you know…”
“Ah, right. Heard you married that hotshot lawyer. What was his…”
“Ian. We split up.”
The words spilled out before she could stop them. But once said, there was no taking them back. Marina didn’t pry. Just stared, thoughtful.
“We’ve got a junior spot at the studio. Paperwork, nothing fancy. But you could get back in the game. Want to?”
Anna’s heart fluttered. A chance.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, pocketing the business card.
At home, unpacking groceries, she stared at the little rectangle with the studio’s logo. A tiny shot. But a shot.
*You’re nothing without me.*
Anna took a deep breath and dialled.
“Marina? It’s Anna. I’m in.”
“Contrast Studio” was tucked into a crumbling old building, but inside—pure beauty. High ceilings, massive windows—room to breathe. Anna hovered by the glass doors, ice in her gut. Her heart hammered—*run now, while you still can.* Through the glass, silhouettes moved, voices buzzed, a coffee machine hissed. A whole world—not hers of tea towels and perfectly folded shirts.
*Go on, brave face,* she told herself.
She pulled the door open.
The first week was torture. The computer fought her, new software tangled, colleagues oozed cool. She felt ancient, useless among these young talents. Fingers fumbled, words tangled. Evenings, she’d curl up on the sofa and cry silently.
*You’re nothing without me.*
Anna hated how those words still gripped her.
By Friday, she nearly bolted. A drafting error, the boss’s frown, colleagues’ pitying looks—*what am I doing here?* But Marina caught her at the door.
“Oi, not so fast. Work drinks tonight. Just round the corner. Need to mingle.”
Anna tried to refuse, but Marina was already dragging her down the street, babbling about a new bar with killer cocktails.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” she said, weaving through the crowd. “Everyone does. Listen, you’ve got a killer eye for space. Saw your café draft—proper stylish. Just need practice with the software.”
Anna blinked.
“You saw that? But I never handed it in…”
“Peeked by accident,” Marina grinned. “Sorry, nosy. But it’s good. You should pitch your own stuff.”
The cocktail was killer. Or maybe it was the company—for the first time in forever, Anna felt like she belonged. They talked projects, debated trends, laughed at office jokes. And no one—*no one*—looked at her as “Ian’s wife.”
Home past midnight, head buzzing with ideas, phone packed with new contacts. Her sketches sprawled across the table—now she saw not just mistakes, but possibilities.
Anna grabbed a fresh sheet and started drawing. Not for work, not for a brief—just for her. First time in years.
Her first solo project came out of nowhere. A random Wednesday, just another workday. Anna had been bumped from intern to junior designer a month prior.
“Client for you,” Marina popped her head in. “Tiny café on Garden Street. Wants a refresh. Up for it?”
Anna nodded.
“Up for it.”
The café *was* tiny—six tables in an old bakery. The owner, a bearded bloke named Daniel, seemed familiar.
“We were at uni together,” he explained, spotting her confusion. “You did design, I did economics. Even danced together at some student do.”
Anna flushed. She’d forgotten him entirely.
“Always thought you were brilliant,” he said as they surveyed the space. “Saw your work at the graduation show. So when I heard you were back in the game? Knew I had to hire you.”
*You’re nothing without me,* Anna remembered Ian’s words and realised—they had no hold now. Just echoes of someone she’d once loved, but no longer knew.
She worked nights. Drafted, planned, sourced materials, haggled with suppliers. This little café was her proving ground—the start of a new chapter.
When it was done, even Arkady, Contrast’s stern creative director, gave a grudging nod:
“Not bad, Collins. Could be bolder, but for a first go—decent.”
High praise.
“Garden Café” opened in November. Daniel insisted her name be on the door—tiny, elegant letters beside the logo.
Her quiet triumph. Anna lingered in the corner, watching people admire her work, clueless about the designer in their midst. A creator’s quiet joy.
“I’m offering you a stake,” Arkady said three months later, when “Garden” was the city’s hottest spot and Anna had a waiting list. “Five percent to start. You bring in clients, you’ve got vision—time to make it official.”
Anna eyed the contract. Her own studio—even under Contrast’s wing—was more than she’d ever dreamed.
She signed, fingers shaking.
“Welcome, partner,” Arkady shook her hand.
That night, she and Marina sat in the same bar where they’d had those first cocktails.
“Knew you’d smash it,” Marina raised her glass. “Saw your spark back in uni. Shame it took ten years for *you* to see it.”
Anna shook her head.
“Don’t be. I needed every step.”
She didn’t say the rest—that for months, she’d waited for Ian’s call. First dreading it, then hoping, then just waiting, like rain or sunset—no feeling left
