It Feels Like the Love Is Gone – “You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole department,” he said back then, handing her a bunch of daisies from the flower stall by the underground… Anna laughed as she took the flowers. The daisies smelled of summer and something ineffably right. Dmitry stood before her with the focused gaze of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was her. Their first date was in Hyde Park. Dmitry arrived armed with a picnic blanket, a thermos of tea, and homemade sandwiches prepared by his mum. They sat on the grass until night fell. Anna remembered his laughter, head tipped back; the way he brushed her hand, as if by chance; the way he looked at her—as though she was the only person in all of London. Three months later, he took her to see a French comedy she didn’t really get, but laughed along with him anyway. Half a year after that, he introduced her to his parents. After a year—he asked her to move in. “We practically spend every night together already,” Dmitry reasoned, running his fingers through her hair. “Why pay rent for two flats?” Anna agreed. Not for the money, of course. But because with him, the world seemed to make sense. Their little rented flat smelled of home-cooked roast on Sundays and freshly ironed shirts. Anna learned how to cook his favourite meatballs—with garlic and dill, just the way his mother made them. Dmitry would read aloud to her from finance magazines in the evenings, dreaming of starting his own business. Anna would listen, chin resting on her palm, believing every word. They had a plan: save for a deposit, get their own flat, then a car. Then kids, of course. Two—a boy and a girl. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” Dmitry would say, kissing her on the top of the head. Anna would nod. With him, she felt invincible. …Fifteen years passed, layered with routines, belongings and rituals. A flat in a leafy borough, overlooking the park. A twenty-year mortgage, which they paid off early by denying themselves holidays and restaurants. A silver Toyota parked out front—Dmitry’s pride and joy, which he polished to a shine every Saturday. A warm pride swelled in Anna’s chest. They’d built everything themselves. No parental handouts, no lucky breaks—just hard work, saving, and patience. She never complained. Not even when she was so exhausted that she’d fall asleep on the Tube and wake up at the end of the line. Not even when all she wanted was to drop everything and head for the sea. They were a team—Dmitry always said so, and Anna believed him. His well-being always came first. Anna learned this rule by heart—it became part of her DNA. Bad day at work? She’d cook dinner, pour the tea, listen. Row with the boss? She’d stroke his hair and whisper that it would all be alright. Self-doubt? She’d find the right words to pull him out of it. “You’re my anchor, my home, my strength,” Dmitry would say in those moments. Anna would smile. To be someone’s anchor—wasn’t that happiness? Rough patches came and went. The first one struck five years in, when Dmitry’s company went bust. He was out of work for three months, trawling the job ads, growing gloomier each day. The second was worse. Colleagues stitched him up with some dodgy paperwork, and he lost not just his job, but a lot of money. They had to sell the car to cover the loss. Anna never reproached him—not with a word or even a look. She took extra shifts, worked late, scrimped on herself. Her only worry was him—his feelings, his confidence, not letting him lose faith in himself. Dmitry pulled through. He found a better job than before. They bought a new car—the same model, silver Toyota. Life steadied itself. A year ago, they sat in the kitchen and Anna finally said what she’d been thinking for ages: “Do you think it’s time? I’m not getting any younger. If we keep waiting—” Dmitry nodded. Seriously, thoughtfully. “Let’s do this properly,” he said. Anna held her breath. Years of dreaming, waiting for the right moment, putting things off. And finally—this was it. She had imagined it a thousand times: little fingers wrapped around hers, the scent of baby powder, tiny footsteps waddling through their living room, Dmitry reading bedtime stories. A child. Their child. At last. Everything changed at once. Anna re-examined it all—her diet, her routine, her workload. She booked appointments, had tests done, started on vitamins. Her career faded to the background, even though she was just up for a promotion. “Are you sure?” her boss asked, peering over her glasses. “This kind of chance comes once in a lifetime.” Anna was certain. The promotion would’ve meant travel, late hours, stress—not the best setup for pregnancy. “I’d rather transfer to the branch office,” she answered. Her boss shrugged. The branch was a fifteen-minute walk from home. The work was dull, repetitive, and with no room to grow. But she could clock off at six and forget about the office at weekends. Anna settled in quickly. The new colleagues were lovely, though not ambitious. She brought lunch from home, took walks at lunchtime, went to bed before midnight. All for the future child. For their family. Then, without warning, the cold crept in. At first, Anna dismissed it—Dmitry was working hard, just tired, that’s all. But he stopped asking about her day. Stopped holding her in bed at night. Stopped looking at her the way he once did, when he’d called her the prettiest girl in the whole department. The house grew quiet. Unnaturally quiet. They used to chatter in the evenings—about work, plans, silly things. Now Dmitry scrolled on his phone all night, gave curt answers, went to bed turned away to the wall. Anna lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. Between them—an abyss the width of half a mattress. Their intimacy vanished. Two weeks, three, a month—Anna lost track. Dmitry always had excuses: “I’m really tired. Tomorrow, okay?” Tomorrow never came. Eventually, she asked outright. One evening, summoning her courage, she stood squarely in front of the bathroom door. “What’s going on? Please—just be honest.” Dmitry looked past her, eyes fixed somewhere near the door frame. “It’s nothing.” “That’s not true.” “You’re overthinking. It’s just a phase. It’ll pass.” He slipped past her and locked himself in the bathroom. The water ran. Anna stood in the hallway, hand pressed against her chest. It hurt—dull, persistent, constant. She lasted another month. Then, unable to bear it longer, she asked: “Do you still love me?” A pause. A long, terrifying pause. “I… I don’t know how I feel about you anymore.” Anna sank onto the sofa. “You don’t know?” Dmitry finally met her gaze. There was nothing in his eyes—emptiness, confusion. Not a trace of that fire from fifteen years ago. “I think… the love is gone. It’s been gone for a while. I kept quiet because I didn’t want to hurt you.” Anna had lived through months of agony, not knowing the truth. Over-analysing every look and word, searching for reasons. Maybe work stress. A midlife crisis. Maybe just a run of low moods. But he simply didn’t love her anymore. And he’d stayed silent, while she planned their future, gave up her career, prepared her body for motherhood. The decision came suddenly. No more “maybe”, no more “it might get better”, no more “let’s wait and see.” Enough. “I’m filing for divorce.” Dmitry went pale. Anna saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. “Wait. Don’t rush. We can try—” “Try?” “Why don’t we have a baby, yeah? Maybe that’ll change things. People say children bring couples closer.” Anna let out a bitter, ugly laugh. “A baby would ruin everything. You don’t love me. Why have children? So we can end up divorcing with a baby at home?” Dmitry had no reply. Anna left that very day. She packed only essentials, found a room with a friend. Filed for divorce a week later, when her hands had stopped shaking. The division of assets promised to be long—flat, car, fifteen years’ worth of things. The solicitor talked of valuations, shares, negotiations. Anna nodded, took notes, tried not to think about how their whole life was now measured in square feet and horsepower. She soon found a small flat to rent. She learned how to exist alone. Cooking for one, watching boxsets with no one to comment beside her, sleeping spread across the whole bed. Sometimes, at night, it all crashed down. She’d lie hugging her pillow, remembering. The daisies from the shop. The picnic blanket in Hyde Park. His laugh, his hands, his voice murmuring, “you’re my anchor.” The pain was unbearable—fifteen years couldn’t just be thrown out like old rubbish. And yet, through that pain, something else emerged. Relief. A sense that this was right. She’d made it out in time—before a child tied her to a man who no longer loved her. Before she trapped herself in a lifeless marriage for the sake of “keeping the family together.” Thirty-two. Her whole life ahead. Scared? Terrified. But she would cope. There was simply no other option.