Olivia sat at the kitchen table, staring at the ring with a tiny stone Victor had given her recently. “Just because,” as always. Once, such gifts made her heart race—now they only brought a dull ache. Nothing felt worse than living with someone you didn’t love…
She’d met Victor at university. He was “that friend”—reliable, quiet, kind. Always there, always ready to help. Olivia never took him seriously until he started pursuing her. Patiently, endlessly. She’d even laughed about him with her girlfriends.
But he didn’t give up.
Eventually, they started dating. Then he moved in. It all happened as if on its own. Yet the feelings—real ones—never surfaced.
Victor was content. He made her chamomile tea, washed the dishes, ironed her dresses. Meanwhile, Olivia grew irritated by the sound of his breathing. He seemed weak, spineless, boring.
Her friends said she was lucky—men like him were rare. But behind her back, they whispered she didn’t deserve him, calling her cold and cynical.
And still, he endured. Even when she flirted with his colleagues. Even when she pushed him away. Even when she snapped one day, “Don’t wait up. I’m leaving. I’m tired of you.”
He stood in the doorway, pale, his eyes vacant. And he didn’t stop her.
Two weeks later, Olivia met James—arrogant, charismatic. They crossed paths in a pub after she’d had a few too many and was dancing on the bar. He sat beside her and said, “A year from now, you’ll regret leaving the one who loved you.”
She laughed.
With James, it was like a film—fancy dinners, sleepless nights, expensive gifts. Until the cold stares began, the criticism of her laughter, the disapproval of her clothes. Then came the betrayal. He didn’t even apologise.
“What did you expect? I never made promises.”
Olivia stepped out into the rain. She dialled Victor’s number—but couldn’t bring herself to press call.
At home, she dug out old photos—him and her, happy. His hands on her shoulders, her looking at him with what might’ve been love. Or was it just pretending?
Days later, she had a breakdown. Her heart gave out. In the hospital, she saw something in Victor’s eyes for the first time—not love, but indifference.
“Why did you come?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. Habit.”
He left. Only chamomile flowers remained—the ones she’d once preferred over roses.
“Why were you afraid of being loved?” her therapist asked.
Olivia choked back a sob.
“Because it’s a risk. Everyone who loved me left. My father vanished when I was seven. My mother said, ‘Don’t trust anyone again.’ I tried. Hid behind cynicism, sharp words. But Victor got through…”
She cried. Softly, as if finally allowing herself to feel.
“Do you want him back?”
“More than anything. But he doesn’t want to see me. And I understand why.”
Two years passed.
Olivia spotted Victor in a café. By the window, flipping through the menu, tapping a familiar rhythm with his fingers. She approached.
“Hi. Mind if I join?”
He nodded. Stayed silent. Watched her carefully.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. Just wanted to say thank you. For who you were. And I’m sorry I didn’t know how to love.”
Olivia stood and walked away.
A week later, he texted: *Let’s try again. Slowly.*
They don’t live together now. They go on dates, laugh, sit in silence. Learning to trust again.
Her fridge holds a quote on a magnet: *If you’re cold, grow warmer.*
And every “slowly” is a step forward. A step toward feeling loved again—and knowing she’s capable of it too.
