**Date: March 15, 2023**
I need to have a proper rest this Friday… — I opened the closet and pulled out one of my new dresses.
“Though, what?” James mumbled lazily, sprawled on the couch in front of the TV.
“Well, what?” I snapped back. It’s Saturday for Sophie’s birthday, Sunday their engagement party. Two celebrations in a row. Should count as luck, right?” I replied, brightening.
“Yeah, *celebrations*,” he drawled. “Sunday will be a funeral for that one.”
“Stop it!” I snapped. “They’re a great couple. They love each other!”
“And what makes you think they do?” he countered. “Alex just bought Sophie a ring. I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts announcing a pregnancy soon.”
“And what are *you* implying? That they don’t—?” I caught myself, my voice faltering as I stared at him. The dress and heels I’d fetched earlier suddenly felt irrelevant.
James avoided my gaze. He always did, even now, when the room felt heavy with unsaid words. I changed into my pajamas, left the outfits for resuming the dress trials, and went to bed. He supposedly finished the film, but he never came to bed properly. As usual.
…We’ve been living together for two years. I’ve imagined countless times the day he’ll ask for my hand in marriage. I’d say yes, of course. We’d have the perfect wedding, my groom would be the happiest man on Earth, and I’d be the most beautiful bride. I’ve dreamed about children too—a boy, maybe a girl—growing up in that perfect home.
But reality has crumbled those ideals. James does love me, I think. He buys me gifts, takes me to restaurants, and visits his family when I insist. But there’s always that nagging feeling, like a splinter I can’t remove. He’s avoided the topic of marriage since our third year. Every time I bring it up, he defers it or changes the subject, as if pretending it doesn’t exist.
“James, I’d love to have your last name,” I’d say, testing the water.
“Emily, does it really matter? It’s 2023. What difference does it make? We’re happy as we are,” he’d reply, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“And what about marriage? Are you *not* planning to propose? I… I don’t want to live in sin forever. And a family should share the same surname!” I’d press.
“Why do women always obsess over this? A piece of paper isn’t what makes a life. You know I love you.”
These arguments repeat themselves, each one more frustrating than the last. I don’t fight, but the silence afterward eats at me. I keep telling myself one day he’ll come around. Maybe after our next holiday? After I buy the ring box for him to choose one?
…We met in university’s second year. First dates, then roommates. Both of our parents were fine—*‘young adults, independent, let them learn’*, they’d say. At first, my parents helped cover rent, but once I got a job in marketing, I started contributing. When I managed a major client, I even took on freelance work to stretch the money further.
James never found stable work. His first job at a tech startup sounded promising, but he never lasted. “The manager’s great, flexible hours, and the salary is all sorts,” he’d tell me. Turned out the pay was a joke the first month, delayed the second, and vanished completely the third. Without income, he moved back in with his parents. But when I tried to talk about it—
“Why do you always bring up work, marriage, holidays? Go ahead. Enjoy your trip to Spain!” he had snapped one day.
“I’m not asking for much, just security. We could afford a holiday if you had a proper job!”
“Stop nagging like my mother! Go to Spain. I’ll stay home with my folks.”
“You mean like a furniture? Go, then.”
He did. For months. His dad got him a warehouse job through a contact, and he returned, apologized, and gave me the first ring we could afford from his first paycheck. I forgave him. Because I loved him. Love, I kept telling myself, could endure all that.
The arguments resumed when Alex and Sophie announced their engagement. They were hosting a double event—Sophie’s birthday and Alex’s proposal. I told myself James would see how love should be.
…All week, I brooded at work.
“You think he’ll propose now that Alex and Sophie are getting hitched?” I asked my colleague, Lucy.
“Please. James will never propose. I’ve told you before. He’s comfortable as it is—beautiful, hardworking, and holding his hand in his pocket.”
“Don’t say that. He *loves* me. Maybe he’s just… scared.”
“Scared? Of responsibility, yes. You’ll either end up an old spinster or stuck with him and divorced, arguing for child support over the phone.”
I refused to believe it. But the next evening, at Sophie’s birthday, I saw them. James and Alex.
“Bro, tomorrow’s the engagement. After that, no more women, you know,” James grinned.
“Rubbish. A wife isn’t a wall,” Alex laughed. “We’ll party before the wedding.”
I left the bar and didn’t look back.
The next day, we had a conversation—no shouting, no lies. James didn’t deny speaking to Alex.
“Then what about *you*? Are you saying you’ve never cheated?” he hissed.
I said nothing.
I erased him from my life.
…The engagement happened without me. Sophie and Alex had their big day. They invited me, I said I was unwell. Later, I called Sophie—about Alex’s secret gambling debts, his affairs. She ignored me. She still does.
Their marriage ended in a year. Rumours say it was Alex’s betrayals again. I don’t care. I’ve found peace in solitude.
Still, sometimes, I wonder if one day I’ll meet the man who doesn’t need to be chased.