**Love That Never Was**
The bus halted at a crossroads in the heart of a quiet English town when Thomas first noticed her lips. The girl brushed a dandelion fluff from her sleeve, and that delicate movement—like a kiss to the wind—struck him like sunlight piercing a dark room.
“You’ll be my wife,” he blurted to the stranger, startled by the way her hazel eyes suddenly mirrored his entire existence.
She turned slowly, her gaze not frightened but icy, as if appraising him like a cracked canvas. “You’re mad.”
“I’ll be the best husband you’ve ever had. Say yes.”
She laughed, revealing slightly uneven teeth. “On what grounds? I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s change that. Meet me again,” he said with a theatrical bow, leaving no room for refusal. “Thomas, an engineer with grand plans. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Emma,” she replied, as if in a daze. “An artist. Maybe famous someday, maybe not.”
“Perfect pair—a man of logic and a dreamer,” he grinned. “We’ll balance each other out.”
“No, thank you,” she said flatly. “I’m already whole on my own.”
“That’s exactly why I’ll love you,” Thomas felt his pulse quicken. “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight, by the fountain in the park. I promise an evening you won’t forget.”
Emma didn’t like him. She had no intention of going. But the next morning, bragging to her friend, she mentioned the stranger who’d promised her forever.
“And you said no?” her friend gasped. “Are you mad? When someone falls for you at first sight, you milk it! What if he’s loaded? You could’ve had a free night out.”
“He’s expecting me tonight,” Emma shrugged. “Fancy tagging along? Let’s see how generous he really is. I’d die of boredom alone.”
“Absolutely, let’s go!”
One evening turned into many. Thomas clung to them like a shadow, sparing no expense for the two art school students. He knew what young women wanted—cinema tickets, cosy cafés, expensive paints, quality brushes. A seasoned engineer working in a tech firm, he could afford it.
Emma made no secret of her indifference. She openly admitted she was only passing time with him until she found real love—with someone else. She was doing him a favour, really.
Thomas watched her with fond exasperation, repeating after every date: “You’ll be my wife.”
She’d laugh in response. Who’d want a wife who gazed at other men? But Thomas didn’t falter. This wasn’t courtship—it was a siege.
He waited for her after lectures, took her to galleries, bought her jewellery, memorised her habits. He even “handled” her admirers—one lad got roughed up in an alley, purely by accident. He called her mother, too: “Your daughter deserves better than these boys.”
Emma fumed, shouting she wasn’t his possession, that this was the 21st century. Out of spite, she dated lads her own age. One from her class caught her eye, but he was penniless. A literature student from old money looked down on her. A musician from down the street loved passionately—until he chased someone new a week later.
After each heartbreak, Thomas materialised like a ghost: “Told you, they weren’t right.”
Her mother swiftly took his side. When Emma rebelled, she sighed, “You’re being foolish. Marriage isn’t about passion. He loves you, and with a man like that, you’ll never want.”
“Jazz tonight,” he’d say, handing her tickets when she was meant to meet another suitor.
“He’s beneath you,” he’d remark a week later when that suitor vanished.
Emma never asked how he managed it. Deep down, she was touched by his devotion—like something from an old novel where the heroine was worth fighting for.
“Marry me,” he said for the hundredth time, offering a sprig of cherry blossoms, her favourite. “I’ve got land. We’ll build a house, with a studio just for you.”
“I don’t love you,” she whispered. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t even tried. I’ll make sure you do.”
Suddenly, exhaustion washed over her—not from him, but from herself. At twenty-six, she was beginning to suspect the love she sought didn’t exist. Every prospect crumbled like sand. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe it was time to surrender.
“Fine,” she said. His face lit up, as if he’d glimpsed light at the end of a tunnel.
He was the perfect husband. Flowers, no complaints, built shelves, renovated their home to her sketches, carried her in his arms at parties. But the bedroom became a duty (“Come here, darling, I’ve missed you”). Children never came.
Emma wasn’t living. She endured his love. She never got used to his sudden kisses on the back of her neck while she chopped vegetables.
Her friends envied her, but she wanted to scream, “Take him, then!” Their marriage was a stage where she played the happy wife.
They never argued—what was there to fight about? Once, she hurled a figurine from her mother-in-law against the wall. Thomas didn’t blink.
“Don’t fret, love. We’ll glue it.”
She realised then—he’d never let her go. She bought a train ticket, packed a bag. But Thomas brought home a Siamese kitten she’d once mentioned wanting:
“You’ve been so down… Maybe he’ll help?”
Emma stayed.
Years later, he found the unused ticket tucked in a book. Over supper, he asked quietly,
“Why are you still here? If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Because…” she hesitated, “loneliness scares me more.”
Thomas smiled, mistaking it for love.
But Emma knew the truth—she’d grown used to his devotion and feared he was the only one who’d ever love her.
