Rain lashed against the taxi windows as Ethan trudged out of the city, his umbrella already forlornly snapping in the wind. Normally, he’d take pride in navigating this daily chaos, but today, his mind was too tangled to appreciate London’s familiar grit. The issue? Emily. Their three-year romance—once smooth as a well-poured pint—had recently gone flat. He’d tried everything, from surprise weekend breaks in the Lake District to posh dinners followed by full albums of jazz piano (because, apparently, that’s what a relationship «needs»). Yet lately, Emily had been as distant as his aunt’s lectures about «responsibility, dear.»
He remembered their meet-cute at that rooftop shindig in Shoreditch. Emily had glided in like she’d just been crowned by the monarchy—confident, with a laugh that could cut through the drizzle. She wasn’t the typical dating pool, that’s for sure. While he’d date someone who’d talk about Netflix algorithms and the best fish and chip shops, Emily cared about climate policy and had once quoted Wordsworth while eating a tart. It was… refreshing. And now? Her replies to his texts were as brief as his boss’s appraisals.
When Ethan dared to ask what was wrong, she’d deflected with a wave and a “Darling, I’m swamped with the new project.” He’d taken it as a sign to up his game. Flowers? Check. Handwritten love letters? Check. A full-blown surprise trip to Bath (her least favorite, by the way)? Double check. But now, as she canceled their plans for the third time this week to “chill with the girls,” he felt like a deflated Christmas cracker.
Meanwhile, Emily nursed a cappuccino brewed in a café tucked into a corner of Clerkenwell, her scarf damp from the rain (and maybe the tears she’d blinked away). She could be with Ethan right now, cozied up in their flat with his overly-enthusiastic playlist of 80s power ballads. He was everything a woman should want—charming, attentive, and slightly too proud of his “spare tire compartment for her heels.” But why did her heart feel about as warm as a Sunday roast that’s been left out all week?
Their relationship had started like a romantic comedy—meet cute, witty banter, the whole nine yards. But instead of a grand finale, they’d settled into a routine smoother than lukewarm tea. Ethan’s occasional gift of handmade cards with lists of “20 Reasons You’re the Best” felt less like romance and more like a compliance audit. And then there was James.
James, her childhood friend who still insisted on calling her “Emmie” and getting his suitcases stuck in doorframes. He wasn’t Ethan’s kind of “put-together” person, but his laugh—chaotic, like a squirrel on a sugar high—used to make her forget about the weight in her chest. Their midnight chats about everything from their disastrous teenage crushes to the existential dread of her mortgage. James had loved her since the day they carved their initials in a tree—badly—and she’d always brushed it off, thinking there was a clear “friend zone” rule. Until now.
As the steam from her cappuccino fogged up her glasses, Emily’s guilt clawed at her. Ethan was decent—really decent. She just couldn’t keep pretending the chemistry was still there. Squeezing the last drops of her drink, she knew the upcoming chat with Ethan would be as awkward as her uncle’s quizzes about “my dear Nellie’s health fund.” But maybe, just maybe, it was time to trade Ethans for Jams—smaller, messier, but with better stories.