Emily sat at the kitchen table, staring at the ring with a tiny stone Victor had given her recently. “Just because,” as always. Once, such gifts made her heart race—now they only brought a dull ache. Nothing felt worse than living with someone you didn’t love…
She’d met Victor back in university. He was “that friend”—reliable, quiet, kind. Always there, always willing to help. Emily never took him seriously until he started courting her. Patiently, persistently. She’d even laughed about him with her girlfriends.
But he didn’t give up.
Eventually, they started dating. Then he moved in. Everything happened as if by itself. Only the real feelings—the ones that mattered—never came.
Victor was content. He brewed her chamomile tea, washed her dishes, ironed her dresses. Meanwhile, Emily grew irritated by even his breathing. He seemed weak, spineless, boring.
Her friends said she was lucky—men like him were rare. But behind her back, they whispered: *Emily doesn’t deserve him. She’s too cold, too cynical.*
Still, he endured. Even when she flirted with his colleagues. Even when she pushed him away. Even when she snapped one day, “Don’t wait up. I’m leaving. I’m done with you.”
He stood in the doorway, pale, his eyes empty. And he didn’t stop her.
Two weeks later, Emily met Daniel—brash, charismatic. They crossed paths in a pub after she’d had one too many and started dancing on the bar. He slid onto the stool beside her and said, “In a year, you’ll regret leaving the man who loved you.”
She laughed.
With Daniel, it was like a film—fancy restaurants, sleepless nights, lavish gifts. Until the cold stares began, the complaints about her loud laugh, the disapproval of her clothes. Then came the cheating. And he didn’t even apologize:
“What did you expect? I never made promises.”
Emily stepped out into the rain. She dialled Victor’s number but couldn’t bring herself to hit call.
At home, she dug out old photos—her and Victor, happy. His hands on her shoulders, her eyes fixed on him with what looked like love. Or was it just pretending?
Days later, she had a breakdown. Her heart gave out. In the hospital, she saw something unfamiliar in Victor’s eyes—not love, but indifference.
“Why did you come?” she whispered.
“Don’t know. Habit.”
And he left. But not before placing chamomile flowers—the ones she’d once loved more than roses—on the bedside table.
“Why were you so afraid of being loved?” her therapist asked.
Emily swallowed a sob.
“Because it’s a risk. Everyone who ever loved me left. My father vanished when I was seven. My mother told me, ‘Don’t trust anyone again.’ I tried. I hid behind cynicism and sharp words. But Victor got through…”
She cried. Quietly, as if finally letting herself feel.
“Do you want him back?”
“More than anything. But he doesn’t want to see me. And I know why.”
Two years passed.
Emily spotted Victor in a café. He sat by the window, flipping through a menu, tapping a familiar rhythm on the table. She approached.
“Hi. Mind if I join?”
He nodded. Silent. Watching.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. I just wanted to say thank you. For who you were. And I’m sorry I didn’t know how to love.”
Emily stood and walked away.
A week later, he texted: *”Let’s try again. But slowly.”*
Now, they don’t live together. They go on dates, laugh, sit in silence. Learning to trust again.
Her fridge holds a magnet with a quote: *”If you feel cold, act warmer.”*
And every *”slowly”* is a step forward. A step toward feeling loved again—and remembering how to love in return.
