Francis had big dreams and found hope in his relationship with Charlotte. Theyd been seeing each other for eight months, and not long ago, they chose to share a flat in London. Everyone nudged them towards marriage, even Franciss mum, who insisted they pick out a ring. Yet Francis thought it was simply too soon.
He had no inkling that Charlotte was a regular guest of the chap living below. One afternoon he returned home early, only to stumble upon them tangled together in bed. They never saw or heard him enterlost in their own world. Fearful of making a scene in front of a stranger, Francis simply stood in the corridor, frozen in the twilight. That evening, he tried to broach the subject, but his voice stayed trapped within him.
Days slipped by in odd rhythms. Francis did nothing. He mourned his failure, the betrayal of a girlfriend, drifting and waiting for Charlotte to end things, but she persisted with kindness and professed her love. Shed vanish, supposedly on shopping errands, but would pop down to the neighbours flat and return again, as if nothing at all had happened.
If not for his mother, who learned of Franciss troubles, he probably never would have found the courage to leave Charlotte. As a future mother-in-law, she refused to accept the situation. Charlotte confessed to mum that Francis knew about everything. He didnt send her away, nor did he ask her to stay. What hurt most was the knowledge that Charlotte would build her joy in a nearby flat, and hed keep meeting them in the stairwell, the echo of their footsteps lingering.
Charlotte didnt linger. A few weeks later, she ended things with her lover, as quietly as shed begun. What a strange girl: she lived with a man, enjoyed his trust, dreamed with him about marriage and family, then tossed a blade into his back and carried on with another. Would Francis ever look for another relationship soon? The dream wobbles, and the answer slips away with the morning mist.
