“Go away. I’m tired of being your second choice,” I said, turning off the living room light.
Andrew froze in the doorway, as if he couldnt believe I meant it. He hesitated, staring into the darkness like he expected forgiveness to materialise out of thin air.
“Emily… you know it’s not that simple.”
“Go,” I repeated, quieter but just as firm.
He left without another word, closing the door softly behind himno slam, just the quiet click of the latch, as if apologising. I didnt need the light to find my way to the kitchen. My hands trembled as I gripped the mug tighter, my fingers aching like Id been out in the cold.
It felt like Id torn something vital out of myselfsomething alive, something Id grown used to, even if it brought me no joy.
In the hallway, the cat, Whiskers, mewed softly. I called out on reflex, “Come here, fluffy, come to me…”
But Whiskers didnt come. She curled up by the front door, sensing something was off.
Silence settled over the kitchen table. The tea in my cup cooled quickly. I sat there, tracing the tiles with my eyes, wondering when it all began and why it had dragged on so long.
It started, as these things often do, with flowers. He brought them, grinning, saying, “Missed you.” Id missed him too. Back then, I still believed you could just miss someone without dissecting where theyd been the night before.
He didnt visit often. But when he did, he arrived like a heroexhausted from work, full of excuses. “You know how things are at home,” hed say.
“I dont expect anything from you, Andrew,” I told him once. “Just come when you can.”
“Dont lie,” he replied, sprawled on my sofa, shoes off. “You want me to stay for good. And I cant.”
“I know.”
But I waited anyway. And when he cameI was happy. I kept a razor for him, his favourite mug, bought the cheese and wine he liked even though I didnt drink. Hed eat, sleep, leave. Sometimes with a kiss. Sometimes without.
Once, he stayed three whole days. For the first time, I dared to hope: maybe this time? But on the fourth day, his wife called. He answered stiffly, nodded, dressed, apologised.
“You know shes unwell. Heart problems. I cant just abandon her.”
“Youre not abandoning her. Im not asking for anything.”
“Dont lie.”
He left. And I waited again.
Once a month, wed drive to his grandmothers cottage in the countryside. There, he was differentwarmer, real, tender. We planted radishes, he fixed the roof, and in the evenings, we talked by the fireplace.
One day, while I was hanging laundry, an elderly neighbour approached.
“Is this your wife?” she asked Andrew.
He hesitated. I stood there, wringing out a pillowcase.
“Not exactly,” he finally said.
“Ah. Right,” she nodded, not pressing further.
I didnt react, but I was silent the whole drive home. He filled the space with chatter about work, the weather, his son.
His son. Sixteen years old, and Id never met him. Andrew called him a good kid, just complicated. His wife was in and out of hospital, struggling. He said he couldnt “break things completely” because “shes got enough to deal with.”
“And what about me?” I snapped once.
“Youre strong. Youll manage.”
That was the difference. She was fragileneeded coddling. I was strongbenchwarmer material.
After that night, I changed. No more ironing his shirts “just in case.” No more making his favourite stew. When he asked, “Whats for dinner?” Id shrug. “Check the fridge.”
“Youre different,” he said. “You used to be so warm.”
“Because I used to believe youd stay. Now I dont. Now I just live.”
He sulked, left, came back three weeks later drunk, with roses. Handed them over and said, “I get it. Youre right. But I cant do more.”
“And I dont want less.”
He didnt understand. CalledI ignored it. Showed upacting normal. I let him in. Same script: wine, talking, a sleepless night. Morninggone.
Thats when I sat down and made a list. Not groceries, not chores. A tally of what Id given him. My patience. My tenderness. My days, nights, energy, love. And next to itwhat Id gotten.
Nothing.
I dotted the page hard, stared out the window. Whiskers jumped into my lap.
“Enough,” I whispered.
When he turned up today, I already knew what Id say.
He hung his coat, set a bag on the table. “Just dropping by. That alright?”
I just looked at him.
“Whats with you?” he asked, sensing the chill.
“Go.”
He stilled.
“What?”
“Go. Im tired of being your backup. Im not a spare jumper you pull on when your favourites in the wash.”
He stepped closer. “Em, come on. Youre overthinking. Were drawn to each other. Isnt that what matters?”
“Drawn? You show up when youre miserable. When theres a row at home, when your wifes in hospital, when youre lonely. When things are goodyoure with her.”
“But you know I cant”
“And I cant do this anymore.”
Silence. He tried to hug me; I stepped back. He sank onto the sofa edge.
“You need me.”
“Youre in my way. I cant build a life with you drifting in and out. Im afraid to fall for someone else, afraid to upset you, afraid youll come back and Ill run to the door like some lovesick girl.”
He stared like he was seeing me for the first time.
“You really want me to leave?”
“I want to live.”
He stood, walked to the door slow, waiting for me to stop him. I didnt.
He shrugged on his coat, turned.
“Goodbye, then.”
“Goodbye, Andrew.”
The door shut. I counted to ten. The living room light was still on. I crossed the room and flicked it off.
Whiskers padded over, purring. I sat, stroking her back.
“Done,” I said aloud. “Im free.”
Outside, wind rattled the windowpane. The streetlamps reflection trembled in the glass. And for the first time in years, the quiet didnt scare meit felt light.
I woke early, as usual. Dawn hadnt broken, but the room was grey with first light. Stretching, I realisedthe flat was silent. No unfamiliar breathing, no aftershave scent, no rustling of a bag with “something sweet” inside.
I put the kettle on. Whiskers wound around my ankles, eager for breakfast. Everything was the same. Everything was different.
Pouring tea, it struck me: Andrew probably thought Id crack, call. Maybe he waited. But no call came.
My phone lay dark on the table. No texts, no missed calls. I sighed. Not that I expected but still.
Work helped. I fell into routine: morning commute, office, reports, kitchen chatter with colleagues, evenings home.
The girls at work had suspicions. Knew I was seeing someone, but I never shared details.
“Em, you look brighter lately,” Lena from accounts remarked once, studying me.
“Just rested,” I shrugged. “No mystery.”
But secretly, Id catch myself listening for footsteps on the stairs, especially at night. Just in case. But they always passed by. Or they werent his.
I called Mum more. Before, it was sporadic; now, near-daily. Oddly, she never priedjust listened.
“Just dont be sad, love. Youll be alright. Youre tough.”
One evening, I went for a walk. Passed the bakery where wed get cakes. Down the path where hed kiss my cold hands, laughing. And I realisedno pang. No bitterness, just a faint echo.
Sat on a bench. Kids played nearby. Parents chatted, argued, laughed. Two weeks, and it felt like a lifetime.
“Emily?”
I looked up. Dan, an old uni mate, stood there, squinting, smiling.
“Blimey, it is you! Thought I was seeing things.”
“Hi,” I said, surprised at how easy the smile came. “Ages since Ive seen you.”
“Ten years, at least. You havent changed.”
“Youve gone grey
