**Waiting for Happiness**
They say waiting for happiness is better than happiness itself. Because while you wait, you hope, you imagine—and that makes you happy already. The moment of having it is so brief. You barely have time to savour it before it stops feeling like happiness and becomes just another ordinary thing. And then you start waiting all over again…
Mark had everything: a flat in London, a decent car, a well-paid job, and a wife—quite beautiful, actually. They’d been sweethearts since school. Young love, grown into marriage against all odds.
And then there was Lily, his four-year-old daughter. His wife, Claire, stayed home with her. Lily—his sunshine, his joy—Mark adored her with every fibre of his being.
What more could anyone want? Life was good. But that’s just how people are—when they have everything, they want even more.
Over the years, he and Claire had smoothed out their edges. They understood each other without words, just glances, even silence. The passion had cooled into something steady, predictable.
Every morning, Mark drank a strong cup of coffee waiting on the table after his shower, slipped into crisp shirts that smelled of sea breeze, kissed Claire on the cheek, and drove to work in his Audi.
Evenings brought home-cooked meals. Weekends were for trips to his parents’ cottage, summers for barbecues, winters for sledging. He was grateful, truly. Not many had life fall into place so neatly.
And yet…
One day, a new girl joined the office—young, fresh-faced, with dark, doe-like eyes that flickered with something shy and untamed. Her name was Lucy. Lucy Harper. Not just a name—a melody.
Maybe it was her eyes, the music of her name, or the sudden thirst for something unknown, but Mark was struck. His heart recognised her and fluttered in anticipation.
He kept stumbling into her—in the corridor, by the coffee machine, at lunch. Coincidence? No. She was seeking him out too.
One morning, he waited in his parked car, watching until he spotted her light, quick steps. He timed it perfectly—bumped into her at the entrance, held the door with practised ease.
In the lift, he stole glances. Sometimes, he caught her looking back—quick, curious. But they never spoke. Too many colleagues, never a moment alone.
Until one ride, just the two of them. He asked about her job, the weather, weekend plans. She answered with smiles and teasing glances.
Autumn passed. Winter came. The office Christmas party loomed—his chance. No one would question him coming home late, or even at dawn. No suspicion, no fights.
All evening, his eyes followed Lucy. When the music started, he cut in first, pulling her close. His heart hammered, his skin tingling like it had when he’d first danced with Claire at the school disco, years ago. Lucy’s dark eyes promised him everything.
Flushed from dancing and wine, they slipped into the hallway. He whispered an idea—let’s escape. She agreed without hesitation. Laughing, they grabbed coats and dashed outside.
The security guard watched them go, resentful. No one had remembered him—no champagne, no chocolates to soften his lonely shift. He sighed, buried his nose in a crossword.
Meanwhile, Mark and Lucy wandered the city, talking about nothing and everything. He avoided mentioning his marriage. She pretended she didn’t care.
With Lucy, he felt light, reckless. *Lucky, lucky*, his heart beat in time with their steps on the snow-crusted pavement.
Exhaustion crept in. He regretted leaving his car behind. “Where do you live?” he finally asked.
“I’m on the outskirts,” she laughed. “New builds. Let’s get a cab.”
Outside her flat, he lingered. Sobriety brought guilt whispering—*Lily’s bedtime, the story you promised.* But Lucy, clever Lucy, invited him up for coffee.
There was no coffee.
Two hours later, he woke in her bed. The world outside her window was a void—no stars, no streetlights. Just darkness. It stole his breath. Lucy joined him, and for a moment, they floated above the earth, just the two of them.
He should’ve left. But home was a question he wasn’t ready to face. A shower, a reluctant goodbye, promises of seeing her soon. A cab back to the office, then his car, then home.
He slipped inside at half-two. Streetlight bled through the curtains. Claire lay still, eyelids pressed tight—pretending. He pretended too, undressed quietly, slid into bed without touching her.
He thought he’d lie awake, replaying everything. Instead, sleep took him instantly.
They never fought, never raised voices. Thin walls, no need for the neighbours to hear. Even if he confessed, she wouldn’t scream.
Guests envied him—his perfect wife, his perfect life. And before Lucy, he’d believed it too.
Morning came. He hummed in the shower. Claire wordlessly handed him coffee, offered her cheek for a kiss.
Meetings with Lucy became routine—her flat, the edge of the city, where no one they knew would see. Guilt gnawed at him sometimes, but how could he walk away? She made him feel young, alive.
A year passed. Slowly, the thrill faded. He craved quiet evenings at home. Lucy drained him. Meanwhile, she grew bolder—*When will we be together?*
Excuses about Lily, about time. But Lucy pushed. The weight of decision pressed harder.
The scales tipped—Claire, Lily, stability on one side; Lucy’s fire on the other. He knew Claire inside out. But Lucy? What kind of wife would she be?
He tried ending it. One kiss, and resolve melted. If only he could merge them—Claire’s steadiness, Lucy’s passion.
One day at work, drafting breakup words in his head, pain speared his chest. Breath vanished. Darkness swallowed him.
Voices swam through cotton—*He lasted longer than I would’ve… Women ran him ragged…*
*Mark, wake up!* Lucy’s voice. *Don’t leave us*, Claire’s whisper. *Daddy, read to me*, Lily’s plea.
*God, I’m dead? I’m 32. I want to live! I’ll fix everything!*
A quiet voice cut through: *Truly? No more lies? You’ll leave Lucy?*
*Yes! Who are you?*
*You can’t see me. You’d go blind.*
Air ripped back into his lungs. Light flooded his vision. A doctor’s shout, Claire’s face above him.
Lucy visited twice. Silent tears, hurried exits before Claire noticed.
Two weeks later, home, playing with Lily, reading stories. How could he have wanted more?
Then, Claire in the shower, his phone buzzing.
*I miss you. When will I see you?* Lucy.
*I can’t talk.*
*She’s there?* A pause. *I’m waiting…*
He had the chance. *It’s over.* Simple. Instead: *Tomorrow.*
*Who called? Work?* Claire, towel piled on her head.
*Yeah. Asking when I’m back.*
*One last time,* he told himself. *I owe her a proper goodbye.*
The pain returned—sharp, breathless. A warning.
He texted: *I’m not coming. Ever.* Blocked her number.
Done. Easy.
Because he wanted to live.
