Snowflakes Drifting Towards Us
After twenty years of marriage, most couples hit a rough patch. Kira and Roman were no exception.
“Twenty years with Roman—we’ve been through so much, raised our son Oliver, who’s now at university. I should call him, see how he’s getting on. Wanted to be independent, so there he is, in student halls. Never complains,” Kira thought, curled up in an armchair under a blanket.
Oliver had always been as stubborn as her. She understood him perfectly—he was a reflection of herself. They’d never had a second child, though she’d sometimes dreamed of it. Life was complicated, and in hindsight, she knew they’d made the right choice.
She and Roman had met at uni, married in their third year, and had Oliver in their fourth. Thank goodness her mum had helped—she never had to take a gap year, and somehow, they both graduated together.
It wasn’t easy at first—money was tight. But as the saying goes, “Time heals all wounds.”
Roman hustled his way into a top firm, climbing the ladder steadily. Now, he’s deputy CEO. Kira hadn’t been as career-driven—she was happy as a manager in a different office.
Roman had been clear: “I could get you a job here, but I don’t want us working together. Look at Dave—he got his wife hired, and now they argue nonstop. She’s jealous of every woman in the building.”
“Don’t worry, love,” Kira had replied. “Work’s work, and home’s home. I feel the same.” He’d been relieved.
Roman was a serious man, not one to chase other women—though he wasn’t immune to a pretty face. He’d never cheated, just flirted harmlessly. What man didn’t?
But Kira’s jealousy flared often. Now, snow drifted outside as she stared at her phone, where her husband’s stubbly, familiar face smiled back.
Silence filled the flat. “He’s smiling, but it hurts,” she thought. “Why doesn’t he call? I’ve felt so alone since I let pride push us apart. I should’ve fixed this sooner.”
Six months ago, Roman had told her, “The company’s throwing a big anniversary do. Boss said bring your spouse—so get ready, love.”
“Oh! I need a new dress,” Kira had said. “I want to look stunning.”
They’d gone shopping that weekend. The dress was exquisite—Roman’s jaw dropped when she tried it on with new heels.
“Bloody hell, Kira, you’re gorgeous!” he’d grinned.
“Damn right,” she’d laughed, tossing her hair.
Now, in her chair, she remembered that night. One image haunted her: Roman dancing, flashing his charming smile at his female colleagues—especially Sarah from accounts, in that tight red dress, whispering in his ear, both of them laughing.
Kira had been left with Dave, his divorced mate, who droned on about his holiday in Thailand. She’d nodded along, pretending to care. Roman had pulled her onto the dance floor, asked if she was having fun—but her stomach churned watching him with the others.
Back home, he’d sensed her mood but stayed quiet. After washing off her makeup, she’d snapped:
“Did you have to flirt so much? Leaving me with Dave all night—his stories were deadly!”
“Should I have glued myself to you all evening? The women asked me to dance—it’s just politeness.”
“I noticed,” she’d shot back, voice rising. “But laughing with Sarah like that? Unnecessary.”
“Kira,” Roman sighed, rubbing his temples, “I’m exhausted by your jealousy. It’s always something. You act like a paranoid madwoman.”
“Better paranoid than a womaniser!”
“Fine. Maybe we need time apart.”
Tears burned, but pride choked them down. She couldn’t admit she was terrified of losing him.
“Fine by me,” she’d said.
Outside, thunder rolled as rain lashed the windows.
The next day, he packed a bag and left. Alone, Kira ached.
“Maybe I should’ve told him I loved him more. Trusted him more. Deep down, I never thought he’d cheat. But I agreed to this split—and now it feels like the beginning of the end.”
Regrets always came too late.
She’d never even glanced at another man. Roman was all she’d ever wanted.
Snow blanketed everything as New Year’s Eve approached. Kira loved winter—the quiet hush, the way snow draped over houses, trees, roads, the whole of London.
Her phone buzzed—Mum calling.
“Kira, love! How are you both?”
“Fine, Mum,” she lied.
“Now, don’t cancel—we’re expecting you and Roman for New Year’s, and hopefully Oliver too! No breaking tradition!”
Kira forced a promise. She adored their family New Year’s in the Cotswolds—skiing, hot tea by the fire, Dad’s old bear rug, classic films, Mum’s mince pies.
Hanging up, guilt gnawed. Her parents didn’t know they’d separated—Roman had rented a flat. She couldn’t ruin their holidays.
“Maybe I should call him,” she thought.
Finally, she dialled.
“Hi, Roman,” she whispered.
“Hi,” he replied, voice warm. God, she’d missed it.
“Mum rang. They expect us for New Year’s. I didn’t tell them… about us.”
“I’ll go,” he said slowly. “But… what do we say?”
“Nothing. Let’s pretend. After the holidays, I’ll explain. Just… act like you love me?” Her voice shook.
“Alright,” he agreed.
Relief flooded her. “Great. I’ve got gifts to buy.”
“I’ll help,” he offered suddenly.
They met two days later at the mall, both drinking in each other’s faces, smiling shyly.
“How’ve you been?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Surviving.”
They picked gifts for her parents, her sister, and Oliver. Kira laughed, chattered—happier than she’d been in months.
Roman drove her home, helped unload the bags.
“Thanks for the lift,” she said.
“Anytime.” His gaze lingered.
She blurted, “Fancy a cuppa?”
“God, yes,” he breathed, pulling her into a hug. “Missed you.”
Kira looked up—snowflakes spiralled down, the sky itself rushing to meet them. She was home. The rest didn’t matter.
