No matter what happened, she’d always tell herself:
*Everything happens for a reason. It helps…*
He’d spent ages working up the courage, and finally, today, he told her he was leaving. He’d collect his things in a month—heading off to Spain for a holiday first, but today was the start of his new life. Without her. And yes, he’d fallen for someone else. These things happen, love. What can you do? Don’t be sad—life goes on.
He expected tears, but she just calmly brewed coffee, sliced cheese, and toasted a loaf of sourdough. Poured the steaming coffee into her favourite mug, watched the curls of fragrant steam rise, then stirred in a dash of cream. Took a sip and smiled. *Perfect.*
He braced for shouting, drama, a scene—but she ate two sandwiches with gusto, washed up, checked her reflection, and left for work. Just before the door clicked shut, she blew him a kiss. The hallway lingered with the faint, floral whisper of her perfume.
That evening, he wondered about her—how she was coping without him. Probably missing him, crying her eyes out.
Meanwhile, she was browsing a furniture showroom, running her fingers over oak tables and bookshelves, realising how nice it was not to compromise or consider anyone else’s taste. Then she spotted a cosy kitchenette in rich walnut, fell in love, and bought it on the spot.
He waited for desperate calls, pleas to come back. Her phone stayed silent.
She, on the other hand, adopted a stray tomcat, named him Simon, scrubbed him clean, and simmered broth for his meals. Turned out, Simon was brilliant company—ate whatever she gave him, adored watching the world from the windowsill, and napping under a chunky knit throw.
*She must feel lonely, abandoned,* he thought. *Absolutely gutted.*
But she’d bought canvases, brushes, and signed up for a painting class. Always loved art, and now—no need to drop everything, rush home, cook dinner, wait up for him. Just peaceful hours lost in colour.
Once, he rang her. She didn’t pick up.
In the oven, a golden-blackberry crumble was browning—just needed watching so it didn’t burn. The kitchen smelled of buttery pastry and jammy fruit. Simon licked cream from his whiskers, purring. Any minute now, her closest mates would arrive to see her debut (still unfinished) painting.
A month later, as promised, he came for his things. *Probably set the scene—candles, wine, something slinky to wear,* he smirked to himself. But the flat was quiet. His bags, packed and waiting in the hall. No candles. No wine. Just the fresh scent of green apple and herbs—*new perfume,* he noted. The kitchen was transformed—new fittings, cosy and sleek. *She’s always had good taste.* Weekend—where was she now?
She was driving to the countryside, visiting friends. In the boot: her first two paintings from a series about a ginger cat—*Cat in the Meadow* and *Cat Among Daisies*. Painted just for fun, but her friends (a lovely couple) adored them and wanted them for their cottage.
Next up? *”Meeting a Charming British Shorthair”*, *”Rooftop Date at Sunset”*, and more.
Beside her in the passenger seat sat Simon—a handsome, glossy-coated tom. Sunlight turned his fur to copper. He studied passing trees and cottages with interest, but occasionally glanced back as if to ask, *You alright?*
*”Everything’s brilliant,”* she replied. And they both smiled.
