**Following the Heart**
Emily stepped out of the office and saw the lift doors opening as people shuffled inside.
“Wait!” she called, breaking into a jog.
At the end of the workday, like in the mornings, the lift was hard to catch. Emily squeezed in at the last second, nudging past the crowd. She had to press herself against the chest of the man in front just so the doors behind her could close.
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning her head to the side—otherwise, his chin would’ve brushed her forehead. He smelled faintly of cologne.
“No worries.”
They stood like that all the way down to the ground floor, pressed uncomfortably close.
Finally, the lift stopped, and the doors slid open. Emily stepped out backward. The man followed, steadying her with a hand so she wouldn’t trip, gently guiding her aside before the exiting crowd could jostle her. It felt like a dance. Before she could catch her breath or thank him properly, her friend Charlotte appeared beside her.
“Heading home? I can give you a lift.”
Distracted, Emily never got a proper look at the man or a chance to say thanks.
“No, I’ll walk. Need to clear my head.”
They stepped outside. A fine drizzle misted the air as people hurried past under umbrellas.
“It’s raining. Stay here, I’ll bring the car round.”
“Lottie, thanks, but I’ll walk.” Emily dug out her own umbrella.
“Suit yourself,” Charlotte said, eyeing her suspiciously.
Emily waved her off, popped open the brolly, and merged into the foot traffic of “car-less” colleagues rushing home. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Truth be told, she wasn’t eager to go back.
The umbrella was more trouble than it was worth—dodging strangers’ brollies, making sure hers didn’t jab anyone. She snapped it shut and stuffed it into her bag. Buds swelled on the trees, and in places, tender young leaves had already unfurled. This fleeting moment of spring’s arrival was something she wished she could hold onto.
As she walked, Emily wondered how she’d ended up here—not in terms of location, but in yet another wrong relationship. She lived in a flat left to her by her grandmother, free of a mortgage. That flat, ironically, was what drew the wrong sort of men to her. Too late, she’d realised it.
So she dragged her feet, walking slowly just to delay going home—where James would be waiting. Not *for her*, but for the dinner she’d cook. And it had all started so beautifully…
***
She and her mum had lived alone after her dad left when Emily was nine. When she was in Year 11, her mum remarried. A strange man moved in, and Emily—who’d grown up lounging in shorts and tank tops—got scolded for wandering about half-dressed. Embarrassed, she hid in her room unless necessary. Her gran solved things by offering Emily a place to stay while “the newlyweds settled in.” Everyone was happy with that.
By her first year of uni, her gran had passed, leaving Emily on her own. At university, she fancied Daniel—a fit, handsome bloke every girl fancied. She barely stood a chance. But one lecture, he sat beside her, then walked her home.
Within a month, he’d moved in. Her mum warned her it wouldn’t end well, but Emily refused to listen. “You sorted your love life—let me sort mine,” she’d snapped. She was an adult, madly in love. Everything would be fine. Naturally, they fell out.
For nearly two years, they lived together like a proper couple. Graduation loomed—just dissertations left to defend. Emily was sure Daniel would propose. But diplomas came and went, celebrations were had, and no ring appeared. Worse, he told her he was leaving.
“Home?” she asked. “When will you be back?”
“I won’t be. I’m going home first, then moving to London. My uncle’s got me a job there.”
“And me?”
“Em, come on. We had a good thing, yeah? I’m grateful—you saved me from halls. But I’ve got to move on. I don’t want to get married yet. I want to build a career, buy a flat, travel. I never promised you anything, did I?”
“We could go together—”
“No, we couldn’t.”
As he spoke, Emily realised she didn’t know him at all. She cried, swore she loved him, begged him to stay.
“I don’t love you. It was *convenient* living with you. You’re sweet, kind—you’ll meet someone decent, have kids. But that’s not for me, not yet. Thanks for everything, but this is goodbye. Sorry.”
He left. Emily sobbed into her pillow for three days. Her mum came but didn’t gloat—just held her. The worst part? Daniel had never loved her. He’d used her. For the flat. The silver lining? She and her mum made up. At least *that* came from his leaving.
***
It took Emily ages to recover. She didn’t date. Her workplace was mostly women anyway.
At the bus stop, she kept seeing the same bloke. They’d board together, ride a few stops. Eventually, they smiled, said hello like old mates, even exchanged small talk. She liked this easy, uncomplicated connection. Strangers, yet not quite. Mornings, she’d hurry to the bus, wondering if she’d see him—her heart skipping when he smiled.
Then he vanished. She waited, scanned the stop every morning. Even let buses go, hoping he’d turn up late. But he never did.
One day, crossing the road after work, she spotted him. Her heart leapt. She’d thought she’d never see him again.
“Haven’t seen you in ages. Were you ill?” she asked.
“Got made redundant. Now I work from home. It’s tough—Mum needs help, my sister distracts me. Job hunting’s grim. I wanted to see you… though I don’t even know your name.”
“Emily.”
“James. But mates call me Jamie.”
They walked and chatted, slipping into first-name terms.
“Will I see you again?” Emily asked outside her flat.
“Course. I live close—I’ll meet you at the stop.”
And he did—often waiting for her, walking her home. Emily didn’t mention living alone for ages—fearful of being used again. But Jamie never pushed for tea or favours. He lived with his mum and younger sister, not in digs.
She liked him—their casual, no-pressure romance. He wasn’t a looker like Daniel, and that was a relief. At twenty-five, she *ached* to love and be loved. Past mistakes faded fast.
One rainy evening, she invited him in. Later, she suggested he move in—quieter for work, no need to meet her at the bus stop.
He never found another job. “I earn more online,” he claimed, editing videos and building websites. Weekends? Whenever he fancied.
Emily left for work; Jamie stayed home. Sometimes he peeled potatoes, boiled pasta. Even shopped occasionally. He proposed quickly—but the wedding kept getting “postponed.” He gave some earnings to his family, supposedly saving the rest. Emily liked that.
But coming home, she’d increasingly find him beer in hand, glued to the telly. The potatoes stayed unpeeled, shopping unmade. “Too busy,” he’d argue—some urgent, well-paid job. Yet no savings grew.
“Mum’s ill—gave her money for meds. Sis needs a prom dress. Prices are mad now,” he’d excuse.
Jamie stopped shaving daily. “Who sees me?” he’d scoff. Getting him outdoors grew harder. Trackie bottoms became his uniform.
“I asked you to hang the laundry. Now it’s all creased,” she snapped once.
“Working from home doesn’t mean I’m your maid. I *earn*—no weekends, either. If I fancy a pint and footy, I’ve bloody earned it.” Every complaint was met with hostility.
Fights multiplied. Wedding talk died. Emily doubted she even wanted to marry him. Again, she’d been fooled.
When she asked how much he’d saved—enough for three weddings and a Bahamas honeymoon, by her maths—he exploded. “I don’t *owe* you reports! It’s *my* money! I’ve got family to support!” Then the kicker: “You’re not my wife.”
He backtracked—”didn’t mean it like that”—but making up took days.
Emily stopped hurrying home. Greeting her: dirty dishes, beer cans, cooking not just dinner but next day’s lunch. Comfort had fattened Jamie—a gut forming. Heart-to-hearts died. Every talk sparked rows.
Today, despite the rain, she walked slowly, rehearsing the breakup speech. How to say she felt nothing anymore?
She couldn’tAnd as she stepped into the lift the next morning, the man from before smiled at her again—this time, she didn’t look away.
