Where Love Was Meant to Be
When Emily woke up on Monday morning, her first thought was simple and unexpectedly calm: today, she wouldn’t text him.
Not out of spite. Not out of pride. Just because enough was enough. No more pleading with her own heart to endure. No more staring at the screen, at those grey ticks, as if they could bring back the warmth. No more crafting messages that went unanswered. Today, she’d choose silence. Her own. And herself.
The coffee was strong, bitingly bitter—just how he liked it. Out of habit, Emily poured two mugs, setting them both on the edge of the table—like before. Like always. For a moment, she froze, staring at the second mug. Then, abruptly, without hesitation, she put it away. For the first time—swiftly. No drama. No breath catching in her throat. Almost without pain. Almost.
Outside, the sun licked the windowsill, but the sky was icy, hollow, like the gaze of a stranger. She threw on her coat, wrapped her scarf, and stepped out. Just walked. Where—she didn’t know. Each step felt like a needle prick, as if she were treading barefoot on a thin wire. The city, once so familiar, felt foreign, as though she were seeing it for the first time. Or maybe she was the one who’d changed. Become someone who no longer waited. Who said goodbye—quietly, wordlessly, but for good.
They’d met by chance—at a coffee stand in Manchester. He’d cracked a joke, she’d laughed. Not out of politeness—genuinely. He’d asked if she took sugar in her coffee; she’d said, “No. But I’ll take pepper.” They’d both smiled. Then came conversation, an evening, fingertips brushing. And that “almost” settled between them from the start. He was there—but not fully. Came—but not every time. Held her—but never promised. His touch was warm, but his eyes held fear. He never let her into his life, yet pretended she mattered there. Almost mattered. Almost love.
That “almost” became a splinter. She lived with it—silently, patiently. Swallowed pauses, choked down waiting, convinced that one day he’d say what had been brewing inside him. That he’d choose. Stay. But he never did. He just existed—close, yet a step away.
Emily waited. Hoped. Then one day, something inside her snapped. No scream. No scene. Just… the thread holding her faith finally frayed. And the emptiness that followed was unexpectedly warm. Because in it—was herself. Without him. But whole.
That day, she didn’t remember how he’d slept, his nose buried in her shoulder. Didn’t recall him saying her hair smelled like his future. Didn’t revisit the way he’d gripped her hand, as if clutching something final. That day, she chose silence. Not his. Hers. Deep. Steady. Like the quiet after a storm.
At the corner market, she bought tulips. Vivid red, edged in white. Not for an occasion. Not in celebration. Just because. Because she could. Because she wanted to. Because it was allowed. At home, she arranged them in an old glass vase, trimming the stems at an angle—just as her mum had taught her. She cleared the table, dusted, sifted through old receipts, found a thin silver bracelet tucked away in a trinket box. Slipped it on. And in that simple gesture, she felt something shift. A return. To herself.
That evening, she lit a candle. Sat by the window. Beyond the glass, streetlights flickered, cars rushed past, voices dissolved into the dark. But inside—it was different. Quieter. Deeper. No fear. No desperation. No him.
Where it had once burned and stung—now there was warmth. Not euphoria. Not elation. Just peace. True, earned, unperformed. Where words had once fallen short—now silence healed. Where love was meant to be—now there was her. Herself. No questions. No hollowness. Just—whole.
And this—it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. Not of a celebration. Not of a miracle. But of life. Hers. Real. And that—was enough.
