**Diary Entry**
Thirteen years of marriage, and my ex-wife was never what you’d call a classic beauty. In her youth, she enchanted me with her fragility, her gentleness, that elusive softness that tugged at the soul. I wouldn’t say she was dazzling, but she always knew how to present herself. The expensive lace lingerie she indulged in, the bathroom shelves groaning under creams, perfumes, oils, and makeup—it was her world. The sheer number of bottles left me baffled, yet she always smelled like a flower garden. We both earned well, lived comfortably, and she could afford these little luxuries.
She never lounged around in scruffy old clothes—her hair was always styled, her outfits crisp. I admired women like that: polished, self-assured. But fate had other plans. Five years ago, we divorced, and my life became a string of fleeting encounters. Women came and went, leaving no trace, until I met *Emily*. She seemed from another world: striking, magnetic, with delicate features and a confident stride. She managed a team of men at work effortlessly, and I couldn’t help but be impressed. I thought, *I can’t let this one slip away*.
It started with casual chats, but soon I invited her to my London flat. I didn’t cook—ordered from a restaurant instead—but set the table myself, pouring my heart into it. The evening was magical: wine, laughter, lingering glances. Emily stayed the night, and after that, she became a regular guest. But the more she visited, the more her behaviour unsettled me. She never brought cosmetics, spare clothes, or fresh underwear. By morning, she looked dreadful: smudged mascara, tangled hair, weary eyes. After a shower, she’d slip back into yesterday’s outfit, and it grated on me. Honestly, I was deeply disappointed.
One day, Emily invited me to her place. I expected chaos—her habits at mine hinted at sloppiness. But when I stepped inside her apartment, I was stunned. Not a mess, but… something else. The place was freshly renovated—stylish, expensive, with high-end furniture and sleek details. Everything screamed taste and affluence. Then I washed my hands in the bathroom, and my heart sank. On the shelf sat only a lone shampoo and a tube of toothpaste. That was it. No trace of indulgence, no hint of self-care. I thought of my ex—her overflowing shelves, the bathroom fragrant with scents, a mark of femininity and self-respect. Here? Emptiness.
Emily had just turned thirty-two, yet she seemed unconcerned about preserving her youth. Didn’t wrinkles or fading skin worry her? Staring at that barren shelf, disappointment welled inside me. But the real blow came on the balcony. On a clothesline hung her underwear—plain, grey, without a whisper of elegance. She caught my glance and shrugged: *”Comfort matters most.”* Those words felt like a verdict.
At forty-one, perhaps I’ve grown too fussy. Maybe my expectations are just baggage I can’t shed. But I knew: I couldn’t live with a woman like this. I ended it—walked away without looking back. Heavy-hearted but certain. Emily was beautiful on the outside, but inside her home, I saw only indifference. And that killed whatever could have been between us.