**Diary Entry**
I don’t want to argue either. But when will you *finally* fix that shelf?
This Saturday, after breakfast, Laura started cleaning the flat. Meanwhile, my husband, James, settled onto the kitchen sofa with his laptop—his only chore being to take the bins out later. For now, he was scrolling through social media.
Then, suddenly, a photo popped up—his old uni mate, Liam, grinning ear to ear. The caption read: *“Finally! We’re in! Come celebrate our new place—have a look and drool all you want!”* James clicked through and saw photos of a stylish flat, perfectly staged.
A year ago, Liam inherited the place from his late nan. Back then, it was a wreck—40 years without a single update, Soviet-era furniture still lingering. Selling it straight away would’ve meant quick cash, but his wife, Emily, refused. The flat was in central *London*, after all. With their savings, she insisted on renovating first—then selling it for double. That way, they’d finally afford the two-bed they’d always wanted.
A full year of renovations later, and now? You’d never recognise it. Liam described tearing down walls, merging rooms, and playing with minimalist furniture. A *proper* transformation. The comments were flooded with praise—some jealous, some convinced they’d hired an interior designer.
*“Nah, just research!”* Liam defended. *“Emily handled the design. We did it all ourselves—except the heavy lifting.”*
James sent a polite congratulations, but inside? He was green. We lived in a cramped one-bed. A friend of his dad’s had let us stay rent-free while he moved abroad—*if* we didn’t change a thing. Not bad for newlyweds, but still…
Emily had always had an eye for style. Even back in uni, when James fancied her, she’d made *normal* clothes look designer. Of course, Liam did all the dirty work—but she was the brains. And now? It showed.
James glanced around our dull little kitchen. It was fine… until he saw Liam’s place.
Bloody Liam. He grabbed his laptop and rushed into the living room—forgetting, *mid-clean*, that bothering Laura was a *bad* idea. Wait till she’s calmed down, *then*—
There she was, stretching onto tiptoes, dusting a wobbly shelf. (God, her figure.) Then—*creak*. The screws gave up entirely, and the whole thing tilted. A stack of books sat stranded on the floor.
He tried to slip away, but—
*“James.”* She blew a loose curl from her face. *“You’d rather stand there than fix the shelf?”*
*“Wanted to show you… Liam and Emily renovated his nan’s place. It’s insane!”* He caught her glare and faltered.
She sighed. *“Let’s see.”*
He eagerly turned the screen. *“Look! It was a dump. Liam nearly sold it, but—”* He kept his tone neutral. No jealousy. No awe.
*“Great for them.”* Her voice was flat. Then she stared. *What?*
*“My nan’s still alive, and who knows if she’ll leave *me* the—”*
*“I’d rather she *lives*,”* she cut in. *“But *he* did it himself, yeah? Emily just… pitched ideas.”*
*“…Right.”*
*“Still not getting it? I’ve asked you *how* many times to fix that shelf? The books have been on the floor for *weeks*. We’ve lived here a year, and it’s falling apart. Should I hire someone? Would that *embarrass* you? Bet you’d build Emily a whole *house*.”*
*“Oh, here we go.”* He sighed. *“Everything’s digital now, but you *still* buy paper—”* He snapped the laptop shut and fled to the kitchen.
*“Wait.”* She followed. *“Every time I mention the shelf, you go deaf. I don’t complain about your *entire wardrobe* of vinyls—why bother collecting when Spotify exists? But I *don’t* criticise. So fine—let’s swap. Your records go on the floor, my books go in the wardrobe. *Then* will you fix the shelf?”*
*“Or… we could buy a bookcase?”* he offered weakly.
*“Or a whole new flat—*ours*—where we can do what we want?”*
*“Laura, I don’t want to fight. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”*
*“I don’t either. But *when* will you fix the shelf?”*
*“I’ll borrow Dad’s drill tomorrow and—*ah*, my parents are at the cottage. Monday. I *swear*.”*
*“Uh-huh. Heard *that* before.”* She walked off.
*Bloody Liam.* James messaged him: *“Thanks—now Laura’s furious.”*
*“Relax. Emily and I nearly divorced *three times* renovating. She even drafted papers. Yours is a keeper.”*
And she *was*. Laura cooked brilliantly, kept our home spotless, and never ‘had a headache’. What more could a bloke want?
*But Monday…* Drill dust everywhere. More blame. He *had* to fix it by next Saturday—or divorce might *actually* happen. God, he hated drilling. Maybe just buy the bookcase? *No, she said it wouldn’t fit.*
Laura cleaned in icy silence. Monday morning, she ‘reminded’ him about the drill—*“Shouldn’t we *own* one by now?”*
Of course, he’d ‘forgotten’.
Next day, she lingered, getting ready.
*“Aren’t you coming?”* he pressed.
*“Go ahead. I booked a ‘handyman’ online—since you *still* didn’t get the drill. Oh, and the bathroom lock’s broken.”*
*“I was *busy* yesterday.”*
*“You’re *always* busy. Why? You don’t haul crates at a *dock*.”*
*“Who’s locking the bathroom? We’re alone.”*
*“Guests might need privacy! Your *mum*, maybe? But *I’ll* get blamed. So a *professional’s* coming. Be *ashamed*.”*
*“*You* be ashamed—hiring a stranger when your *husband’s* perfectly—”*
The doorbell cut him off.
We both froze.
On the doorstep stood *him*—dazzlingly handsome, a drill slung over his shoulder, flashing a *perfect* smile.
*“Handyman. You called?”* His voice was *ridiculously* smooth—like he’d dubbed a *Hollywood* heartthrob.
Tanned, muscles *everywhere*. (Wide work trousers, though—small mercy.) This guy belonged on-screen, not fixing shelves.
*“Wrong flat,”* James said, reaching to slam the door.
*“Yes, come in!”* Laura beamed, shooting James a *look*. *“You’ll be late.”*
James didn’t move. *Since when was she so dressed up? For *him*?*
*“She’s *my* wife,”* he blurted.
*“Lucky man.”* The guy stepped inside.
They were the same height, but James suddenly felt *tiny*. Jaw clenched, he forced himself out.
The *whole* day, jealousy festered. He *almost* called Laura—but stopped. *Pathetic.*
Home. Laura wasn’t back yet. The shelf? Fixed. *Had *he* helped her stack the books?* His stomach twisted.
Then—keys.
*“You’re home?”* She paused. *“James?”*
He stared. *No more ‘handymen’*. He loved her. She loved *him*.
*“You… okay?”* She stepped closer.
He pulled her in. *“I’ll learn to fix shelves. Promise.”*
*“And I’ll stop nagging.”*
Truce.
Three days later…
Laura scowled in the bathroom, clutching a broken mop. *“Everything I *touch* breaks!”*
James caught her wrist. *“We’re a pair—you break, I can’t fix. I’ll buy a new one.”*
*“We’ll go together.”* She smiled.
Love draws people close—but it doesn’t stop fights. Sometimes, two people *can’t* hear each other, so they yell. Petty spats turn into resentment, even divorce.
Some say arguments are just ‘fuel for love’—without them, no sweet make-ups. Others claim they’re love’s *end*. Both are right. It depends on the couple—how they love, *listen*, and forgive.
