Blythe, enough! Open the door!
Blythe turned the knob just enough to pull her suitcase into the hallway. Oliver stood in the doorway, grinning as if nothing odd had happened.
Hey, love! Whats wrong, youre sulking? I was only joking!
She fished a ring from her pocket and flung it onto the suitcase.
***
Excuse me, could you tell me where the cloakroom is? Blythe turned toward the voice and met the eyes of a man who looked at her as if she were the only person in the bustling exhibition hall.
Over there, behind the column she gestured toward the entrance, but he didnt move.
Oliver the corners of his mouth twitched. Actually I know where the cloakroom is; I just couldnt think of a clever line to start a conversation.
Blythe laughed, genuinely surprised by his blunt honesty. Light danced in his eyes, and the dimples on his cheeks made him look boyish, even though his broad shoulders and confident posture were unmistakably adult.
Blythe, thats probably the lamest pickup line Ive ever heard.
Yet it worked, he winked. Coffee? Theres a decent café around the corner, and this contemporaryart show is honestly sending me into an existential crisis.
She agreed, not quite knowing why. Perhaps it was his disarming frankness, perhaps the way he looked at her, as if every word she uttered mattered a great deal.
In the café they talked for four hours. Oliver turned out to be a software developer who adored his dog Baxter, loathed early morning jogs, and claimed he could whip up delicious carbonara. Blythe found herself leaning across the table, laughing louder than usual, and not once checking her phone all evening.
When he walked her to the tube station and asked for her number, her heart leapt up to her throat.
Ill call you tomorrow, Oliver said. Not in three days like those pickup manuals suggest. Tomorrow, because I really want to hear your voice.
He called at exactly nine oclock the next morning.
The following months blurred together. They met dailyafter work, during lunch breaks, on weekends from dawn till late night. Oliver surprised her with flowers for no reason, remembered her favourite books and films, and cooked candlelit dinners. He listened to her stories about a difficult client with the intensity of someone hearing a state secret.
Are you for real? Blythe asked one evening while they lounged on her sofa, legs intertwined.
Oliver kissed the top of her head.
Test me all you like. You can even pinch me.
She did. She searched for a catch, waiting for the mask to slip. Yet Oliver stayed the samewarm, funny, dependable. He fixed a leaking tap in her bathroom without being asked, brought soup when she was ill.
Move in with me, Blythe blurted one night.
Oliver froze, fork halfway to his mouth.
Seriously? he asked.
Were already glued to each other all the time. Why pay for two flats?
He set the fork down, walked around the table and knelt before her.
I was waiting for you to say it first. I didnt want to pressure you.
The move took a day. Oliver hauled two suitcases, a laptop and a coffee maker he proudly declared an investment in our joint household. That night, they spent their first official evening together in her flat, now theirs, and Blythe fell asleep with a smile.
Living together proved surprisingly easy. They split chores quickly: he cooked, she washed up; Oliver took out the rubbish, Blythe watered the plants. Saturdays were spent sleeping in until noon; Sundays, strolling in the park or bingewatching series under a shared blanket. Blythe was content.
After six months of cohabitation, Oliver proposed in a modest yet cosy restaurant with live music and candlelit tables. Blythe sensed something when he tore a napkin for the third time in a row.
Blythe, Oliver pulled a velvet box from his pocket, and her breath caught. Ive been rehearsing my speech for a week, written three drafts, and now my mind has gone blank.
She covered her mouth, tears pricking her eyes.
Just say it he opened the box, revealing a slender gold band with a tiny diamond glinting in the candlelight. Will you marry me? Please.
Yes, she exhaled. Yes, God, of course!
Oliver slipped the ring onto her trembling finger. Blythe felt she had never been happier. They debated wedding details all the way home. Blythe wanted a small ceremony; Oliver agreed to anything that kept her smiling.
The next weeks floated in a sweet haze of plans and dreams. They chose banquet venues, drafted guest lists, argued over the honeymoon. Every morning Blythe stared at the ring, unable to believe her luck.
Everything seemed perfect. Too perfect
One Saturday morning Blythe woke to a chill. She reached for Oliver, but only found a crumpled sheet. Light filtered through the curtains, the clock read eight oclock. Usually they slept until ten on weekends.
Oliver? she called, sitting up.
Silence.
She slipped on a robe and roamed the flat. The bathroom was empty. The kitchen held a cold kettle; no one had breakfast. His trainers were gone from the hallway, his coat missing too.
Her phone lay on the nightstand. She unlocked it and opened the messenger automatically. A green dot pulsed beside his nameonline.
Where are you? Why did you leave so early?
Message sent. Two grey ticksdelivered. She stared at the screen until her eyes ached.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
She brewed tea, though she had no appetite. Turned the TV on, then off. Reopened the appstill online, still silent. Twenty minutes passed, then twentyfive.
Finally, the screen flickered with an incoming message.
Im at the station.
Blythe frowned, rereading the brief line.
What station? Whats happening?
A quick reply arrived, but she would have preferred none at all.
I didnt want to tell you, but Im moving abroad for five years. Forget me.
The words danced before her eyes. She read the text again, a third time, wondering if it was a prank. The green dot vanished, and no further messages appeared.
She dialled Olivers number. Long rings, then a click. She tried againsame result. She typed:
Oliver, whats going on? Call me, please.
The message stayed unread.
The phone slipped from her hand, clattered on the carpet. Blythe collapsed onto the floor, knees pulled to her chest, and wept loudly, her face twisted, tears and snot spilling over.
How? Why? They had been happy. She was sure they were happy.
The first week drifted in a fog. Blythe took sick leave because she couldnt lift herself from the sofa. She replayed every conversation, every gesture, every word, searching for the moment things went wrong. Had she talked too much about the wedding? Had she been too demanding? Had she not given him enough freedom?
On the fifth day she forced herself to eatjust yoghurt and a slice of bread. The smell of normal food made her gag. Tea was the only thing that could go down.
On the tenth day she found herself talking aloud to an empty apartment, apologising to his photo on her phone.
Sorry if I did something wrong. Please tell mewhat exactly did I mess up?
She never removed the ring, turning it over her finger like a prayer bead.
On the fifteenth day her tears ran dry. Only a dull, throbbing emptiness and endless why remained.
On the nineteenth day a new message appeared.
Hey) How are you? I was just joking about the five years. Actually Im at a friends cottage for a short break. Lied because I knew you wouldnt let me go. Ill be back tonight!
She stared at the screen until it dimmed. She unlocked it again, read the smiley faces. Two emojis after he had shattered her heart.
She didnt reply. She tucked the phone into a drawer and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Three weeks passed. She slept poorly, ate little, and blamed herself, while he rested at his friends cottage.
Joked
That evening there was a knock at the door. Blythe knew it was Oliver, but she didnt answer. The knock came again, then he started pounding.
Blythe! Open up, its me!
She pulled the suitcase from under the bed and began methodically folding her things.
Oliver, thats enough! Open the door!
Blythe opened the door just enough to roll the suitcase into the hallway. Oliver stood there, smiling as if nothing had changed.
Hey, love! Whats the matter, youre still upset? I was only joking!
Blythe slipped the ring from her pocket and tossed it onto the suitcase.
Wait, wait! he stopped smiling. Are you serious right now?
Three weeks, her own voice sounded foreign. Ive spent three weeks thinking Id done something terrible, that Id hurt you, that it was all my fault.
Come on, its just
I havent eaten, she cut him off. I havent slept. Ive replayed every conversation, every day, looking for where I went wrong. And you were off in the countryside, laughing at a joke that broke my heart?
Blythe, I didnt expect you to react like that! I thought youd be angry for a few days and then
Pack your stuff and leave.
Hold on, we can talk!
Theres nothing to talk about. Ive spent three weeks talking to myself. Enough of your nonsense.
Blythe shut the door. Oliver kept knocking, pleading not to do something foolish, but Blythe sat on the hallway floor, back against the wall, waiting for the footsteps in the stairwell to fade.
The next day she boarded a train back to her parents housea twohour ride that felt like an eternity. Her mother, Margaret, opened the door and instantly read the distress on her daughters face.
My love, she wrapped Blythe in such a tight hug it was hard to breathe, yet she didnt want to let go.
The kitchen smelled of fresh sconesher mothers weekend specialty. Her father, James, sat at the table with the newspaper, but set it aside as soon as he saw her.
What happened?
Blythe recounted everything, stumbling from one point to another, sometimes circling back to clarify. Margaret poured tea and listened in silence. Jamess brow furrowed deeper with each detail.
So you spent three weeks feeling lost and he calls it a joke? Margaret asked after Blythe finished.
He said he never imagined Id react so strongly.
Blythe, James adjusted his nose. Anyone with a brain knows a message like that isnt a joke.
Maybe I overreacted? Maybe I should have talked calmly?
No, her mother placed a hand over hers. You did the right thing. A man who can joke about abandoning you wont change. Today he jokes about leaving, tomorrow hell think up something else. Hell be surprised each time you get upset.
Your mothers right, James nodded. A family is built on trust. What trust is there when he toys with your nerves for amusement? And why didnt you tell us straight away? Why suffer alone?
Blythe sat between them, a grown twentysixyearold who suddenly needed her parents again, just like when she broke a knee as a child or argued with a friend. She gave a weak smile, her heart finally quiet.
She spent the week there, wandering familiar streets, eating her mothers pies, helping her father in the garage.
When Blythe returned to her flat, it no longer felt as empty. She threw away the remnants of Oliverhis toothbrush, the old magazine on the nightstand, the bright fridge magnet hed brought from a trip.
The lesson was painful but clear. She now knew that pretty words arent love. Flowers and candles arent guarantees of reliability. A real man will never mock the one he claims to love.
Next time shell be wiser, more cautious, and shell find happiness with someone who truly deserves it. The true insight: trust is earned, not given away with a joke.
