Victor Hargreaves never imagined that a simple dinner conversation would turn into a quiet torment for him.
He leaned back in his chair, content with the evening and the hearty stew before him. The air was scented with roasted vegetables and spiced lambEleanor Whitaker, as always, had prepared the meal with meticulous care. She had then brewed a steaming mug of coffee, its aroma filling the room.
“There’s that little café on the corner of the college,” he began thoughtfully, “they still serve those famous croissants.”
Eleanor lifted her eyes from the plate.
“Which café?”
“Oh, right,” Victor said, running a hand over his chin as if coaxing a memory into focus. “You never went there. Clare Ashby, my fellow student, and I would often linger there after lectures, especially when it drizzled. It was cosy, and their coffee was outstanding.”
The spoon in Eleanor’s hand halted midway to her mouth.
She had never met Clare. She had never seen her face or heard her laugh. Yet now a tiny shop with fogged windows formed itself in her mindtwo students sharing croissants while rain streamed down the pane. She could even picture Clare breaking off a piece of the pastry and handing it to Victor, a gesture that seemed intimate, almost personal.
“Just a friendly catchup,” Victor added, though his words were already fading into Eleanor’s imagination.
For Eleanor, that café existed in her thoughts as vividly as if she had spent countless evenings there. She could smell the blend of fresh pastry and slightly bitter coffee, hear the creak of the door as patrons entered, and see the old photographs in wooden frames lining the walls.
And the most unsettling thingshe knew Clare. The girl whose presence in Victor’s past now seemed suddenly tangible, alive. The one with whom he had shared not merely croissants but fragments of his life, now forever lodged in that corner café.
Eleanor realised the cruel truth: she remembered Clare better than many of her own acquaintances, recalling details she had never witnessed.
Jealousy works that wayit paints pictures where there were only hints, and fills emptiness with meaning that never belonged there.
She inhaled sharply and set her spoon down.
“You know,” her voice was unnaturally calm, “I’ve suddenly felt like trying those celebrated croissants.”
Victor raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Now?”
“Yes, right now.”
He wanted to protest, but Eleanor was already rising and heading for the hallway. Within five minutes they were in a car, driving through the nightlit streets of Oxford. Eleanor stared out the window, while Victor stole glances at her clenched fists.
The café turned out to be a cramped little place with a faded sign. Inside, the scent of coffee and fresh bake mingled warmly.
“That’s the table,” Victor pointed to a corner seat.
Eleanor ran a finger slowly over the tabletopthere was indeed a tiny scratch, just as she had imagined.
When the waiter placed the croissants on the plate, she picked one up and split it neatly in two.
“Is that how she used to give them to you?” she asked, extending a half to Victor.
He froze. Something dangerous flickered in her eyes.
“Hold on,” she leaned closer, “I want to understand. Did she look at you like that? Smile like that?”
Victor suddenly felt as though he stood at the edge of a precipice. It was not merely jealousy; it was something deeper. Eleanor was not just probing for Clareshe was trying to become her.
And the most frightening parthe did not want her to become her.
Victor took the halfcroissant from her hand slowly. A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft clink of crockery behind the counter.
“You aren’t her,” he finally said firmly, placing the pastry back on the plate. “And I don’t need you to be.”
Eleanor clenched her napkin nervously.
“But you recall those moments so tenderly…”
“I recall youth, Eleanor,” Victor said gently, taking her hand. “The first term, the smell of books in the Bodleian, the feeling that life lay ahead. Clare is part of those memories, no more than an old textbook or a bench in the quad.”
Rain began to patter against the window, just as Victor had described. The drops drummed a comforting rhythm.
“Do you know why this café came to mind today?” Victor turned her face toward him. “Because you brew coffee the same wayas if with a pinch of salt to soften the bitterness. You don’t replace my recollections; you deepen them.”
The tension in Eleanor’s throat eased. She gazed at their reflections in the cafés mirrored walltwo grown figures amid nostalgic shadows.
“Shall we order another coffee?” Victor suggested. “And perhaps craft our own memory of this place.”
When the waiter returned, they asked not for croissants but for a shared apple crumble. In that moment Eleanor understoodthe café now belonged to her as well.
They left as the rain subsided. The night air was crisp, and golden lamplight shimmered on the pavement. Eleanor stopped, turned to Victor, and said, “You know what I’ve realised? I don’t need to erase your past. It is precisely what led you to me.”
Victor smiled, pulling her close.
“And you?” he asked. “What have you learned?”
“That you’re the only person I want to share not just croissants, but a whole life with. Even the simplest moments with you become extraordinary.”
She laughed, and the sound carried away any trace of earlier anxiety.
“Then let’s promise each other one thing,” she said, growing serious. “Let’s not fear the stories we once lived. Instead, let’s create new onesones we’ll someday recall with warm smiles.”
They walked to the car hand in hand, and Eleanor no longer pictured Clare. The past remained in that fadedsign café, while their present and future unfolded on that Oxford street, beneath stars just beginning to pierce the retreating clouds.
Love, she thought, was not a contest with ghosts of yesterday. It was the art of forging fresh recollections, where old tales become merely a part of the larger journey. And the most beautiful part was realising that the finest moments still lay ahead, to be lived together without fear or doubt.
True happiness, she concluded, was being enough for each other, without comparison.
Outside the car, Eleanor suddenly sprinted across puddles, splashing water everywhere. Victor, laughing, chased after her. They ran along the deserted night lane like two university students swept by a gust of time.
“Catch me!” she called over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling with the same stars they had once watched.
When he finally caught her around a corner, breathless, she whispered, “I’ve thought of somethinglet’s return to that café tomorrow, early, when it’s empty. We’ll leave a note on their board.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“Victor + Eleanor. The start of a new tradition.”
He chuckled, pressed a kiss to her lips in the middle of the street, while a nocturnal cat observed from a windowsill.
Love, he thought, was not erasing his story but adding new chapters. The best pages were the ones they were writing together, right there, in that moment.
