**The Waiting**
In her final year at university, Jane was asked to marry Max, her boyfriend of nearly a year. Like many young couples, they dreamed of domestic bliss. Jane felt certain she was the happiest woman alive—marrying for love. She often recalled her grandmother’s words:
*”Darling, marry for love—believe me, I’ve lived long enough to know. And don’t trust those silly sayings about time healing all wounds. Some wounds never heal.”*
Jane adored Max and was sure he felt the same. So, without hesitation, she said yes.
*”Liz, you’ll be my bridesmaid, right?”* she asked her best friend and dorm roommate.
*”Obviously—who else?”* Liz replied.
Three days later, Jane’s world shattered. She walked in on Max and Liz in the study room of their dorm, tangled together in a way that left no room for misunderstanding.
*”Couldn’t even pick a decent spot?”* she spat before fleeing in tears.
Max begged forgiveness, stammering excuses—*”Jane, it’s not what you think!”*
*”Oh, I understand perfectly,”* she snapped. *”I want nothing to do with you—let alone marriage. You’re a traitor, and that’s that. And Liz is no better. Birds of a feather. Go ahead, marry her—see if I care.”*
After the betrayal, Jane swore off men entirely. She dissected the situation coldly and decided she’d never trust one again. Instead, she’d toy with them, use them—just as they had used her.
*”It’s cynical,”* she thought, *”but I won’t be fooled or heartbroken again.”*
Max and Liz married quickly, and she fell pregnant soon after. Jane stayed in London after graduation, landing a job at the same firm where Max worked in a different department. Their paths crossed occasionally.
He spoke first, spotting her in the hallway: *”Fancy seeing you here. How’ve you been?”*
*”Brilliant,”* Jane chirped, masking her bitterness. *”And you?”*
*”Oh, you know—new dad. Liz had a girl.”*
*”Congratulations,”* Jane muttered before excusing herself.
At the office Christmas party, a tipsy Max hovered near her. She reeled him back effortlessly. But when he confessed how much he missed her, how he still loved her, she shoved him away—then sent Liz every sordid detail.
She knew it was revenge. And she felt no remorse.
Jane dated casually, but whenever talks of marriage arose, she ended things. Then a new colleague arrived—Arthur, a department head. From day one, he lavished attention on her.
*”Blimey, Jane, Arthur’s smitten,”* her coworkers teased.
*”We’ll see,”* she replied coolly.
Soon, Arthur was head over heels, inviting her to cafés. She obliged twice but kept him at arm’s length—polite, distant.
Then her friend Natalie dropped a bombshell: *”Jane… you know Arthur’s married with four kids, right?”*
*”Four?”* Jane blinked.
*”Dead serious. HR told me. Thought you should know before some furious mum comes after you.”*
*”Cheers, Nat. Not that I’d ever steal him. Just giving him a taste of his own medicine.”*
When Arthur next asked her to dinner, she smirked: *”No, thanks. Your kids don’t deserve a father like you.”* He paled, realizing his secret was out, and never approached her again.
Years passed. Jane, now thirty-two, was striking, successful—and unmarried. She flirted with attached men, keeping them hooked but never close. She watched, disgusted, as some betrayed their wives with practiced lies.
Then she met Oliver at her new office. Quiet, kind, with a melancholy air. They shared lunches, occasional bus rides home. He felt different—near yet untouchable.
After a work party, he offered her a taxi ride. When she invited him in for tea, he declined politely. She sensed his attraction—his lingering glances, their deep talks—but an invisible wall stood between them.
Then a colleague asked: *”Jane… you know Oliver’s married?”*
*”Yes,”* she lied.
*”Well, don’t get ideas. He’s devoted. Lives for his wife.”*
Jane laughed. *”Devoted? Men like that don’t exist.”*
Later, at a birthday dinner, she cornered Oliver. He admitted he’d been married seven years, had a six-year-old son.
*”Oliver… do you love your wife?”* she pressed.
He sighed. *”We fell in love instantly. Then she fell ill. Bedridden. Probably my fault—I wasn’t faithful. This is my penance. She begs me to leave, but I won’t. This is my cross to bear.”*
*”You’ll waste your life?”* Jane whispered.
*”Not waste. Duty.”*
She saw tears in his eyes. He meant every word.
*”I’ll wait for you,”* she said suddenly.
*”Wait for what?”*
*”For you, Oliver. Just you.”*
A year later, Jane still waits. Not for his wife to die—for him. She believes, stubbornly, that one day they’ll be happy together.
