**Prisoners of Love: A Story Without Winners**
*”Aren’t you afraid?”* Emily whispered as Thomas clicked the lock on the door and reached for the curtains, shutting out the daylight.
*”Of what?”*
*”That someone might see us.”*
He smirked, not looking at her. *”I stopped being afraid of anything a long time ago.”*
Beyond the walls of this London flat, he was a different man—not the one his colleagues knew, not the one whose photograph sat on the shelf of a cosy bedroom with two children’s beds. Out there, he was a devoted husband and father. But here… Here, he belonged only to himself. And to her.
*”You’re the most important thing in my life,”* he murmured, pulling her close.
*”But not the only one,”* she replied, her smile bitter.
He said nothing. His gaze burned so intensely words no longer mattered. Emily didn’t even know why she kept bringing it up. She’d known the rules of this *game* from the start.
She’d met Thomas four years ago, at a mutual friend’s birthday party. She’d arrived with a friend who quickly vanished into the noisy crowd, leaving Emily stranded with a wine glass and unease written across her face. She hated parties, but that night, the air had hummed—like the stillness before a storm.
And then the storm had come. A tall man by the bar, tousled hair, a weary, watchful stare.
*”He’s married,”* her friend had hissed when she passed by again. But Emily had just shrugged. She was twenty-two then—naïve enough to believe anything could be fixed if you just wanted it enough.
*”Alone?”* he’d asked, stepping closer. His voice was deep, rough at the edges.
*”For now.”*
*”Mind if I join you?”*
She hadn’t answered, just nodded. She was already losing control—of herself, of her breath.
They talked about everything—films, heartache, how quickly the best things slip into the past. When she made to leave, he’d asked:
*”Sure you want to go home?”*
Emily hesitated. And then she was in his arms beneath the shadow of an old oak in the park. His touch was electric. Madness.
Years passed. They met in secret—in a borrowed flat where Thomas felt free. He joked, brought her favourite pastries, ran his fingers through her hair. She stayed quiet, never asking for more. But something inside her had begun to stir.
Once, she’d asked why he’d been alone at that party. Thomas sighed, as though reciting a line.
*”She’s autumn. Blankets, soup, warmth. I’m summer. I want to live. And you… you’re my spring.”*
She’d felt chosen. Special. But with every stolen moment, spring turned colder. She noticed things she’d once ignored—deleted messages, flinching at phone calls, silence at the word *”future.”*
*”You can’t even stay the night!”* she’d snapped once.
*”I won’t leave my family, Emily. I’m sorry. The only thing I regret is not meeting you sooner.”*
He always left. But he always came back. And she—she always forgave. She hated herself for it, tried to forget in the arms of others. But even with other men, she searched for Thomas in them.
Four years slipped by. Two of them in torment. Clock ticking, friends marrying, having children. So she’d decided: *the next man who asks.* And it was James—an old classmate, kind, steady, loyal. He’d appeared like warm bathwater—comfortable, but never thrilling.
A wedding. A child. A home. Endless routine. She stared in the mirror and didn’t recognise the woman staring back—tired eyes, hollow. She’d become just like Thomas’s wife. Ordinary. Convenient.
Five years passed. Then, one day, he called.
*”Hi…”*
Her heart stalled. That voice. Still the same.
*”How did you get my number?”*
*”Found it. Meet me?”*
She agreed instantly. No hesitation. Every fibre of her screamed: *It’s not over.*
They met in the same park. He’d aged. So had she. But when he took her hand, time vanished. He was hers again. *Hers.* She was still his spring.
*”We’re twenty-two and thirty-one again,”* he whispered.
*”No, Thomas. I’m thirty-four. You’re forty-three. We’re not the same people.”*
*”You’re still the most important woman in my life.”*
*”Do you say that to your wife too?”*
He shook his head.
Now, their affair was even riskier. He hid her from his wife; she hid him from James. Fear gnawed at her—of discovery, of ruining everything she’d built. But she couldn’t stop.
James began to suspect. He never made a scene. But he noticed. The coldness in her gaze. The phone switched off. New perfume. Simple questions:
*”Who called?”*
*”A colleague. Late project.”*
*”You’ve been working late a lot.”*
She gave clipped replies. He stayed silent. But his eyes grew heavier each day.
*”I know you’re lying to me,”* he said finally, voice quiet.
*”You’re entitled to think that,”* Emily answered.
He said nothing. Just walked to the kitchen and stared out the window, gripping a mug of cold coffee.
*”Are you happy?”* Thomas asked once.
She gave a wry smile. *”Are you?”*
The answer was in the silence—the exhausted, greying silence between them. They were both prisoners. Prisoners of something that had once felt like everything and would never be real.
And James?
James just kept drinking his coffee by the window. He knew.
But he didn’t change a thing.
Not yet.
