It all began very simply, almost like something out of a schoolbookthey met in Year One and by Year Eleven, theyd fallen in love. Those last two years of school, their love bloomed, and everyone adored them for it. They were beautiful together, their relationship pure and lofty. Everyone just *knew* theyd marry after schoolit was only a matter of time. Oliver and Emily.
And Olivers faith in that future was as unshakable as a Scouts honour. Emily never doubted him either, not any more than she doubted Big Ben chiming at midnight on New Years Eve.
Even I, their form tutor, was fond of themboth of them. Oliver was driven, always so sure of where he was headed. He wanted to be a barrister, so he poured himself into history and politics. Emily? She was going to be “the greatest English writer of all time”thats how Oliver put it. She wrote endless medieval romances, and Oliver was always her first reader. I was the second, seeing as I taught their English lit and language classes.
Oh, those stories of hersfull of grand, aching love, the kind where She renounced all worldly comforts, and He fought anyone who dared take Her away. There were castles, drawbridges over chasms, wicked mothers, and cold-hearted fathers who thought they knew best. But in the end, the “dark spells shattered,” andjust when you least expected itShe died. Or He did. The truth always won, but it was always too late, leaving you both satisfied and heartbroken.
Despite all that, Oliver and I believed in our Emily. Oliver, because his heart and eyes seemed forever bound to her. Me? Because every now and then, beneath all those flowery words, shed write something so sharp it took your breath away. Lines like:
*”The brittle skin of last autumns leaves crackled underfoot.”*
*”The monks hoods, bobbing above the crowd, looked like sugarloaves of sin.”*
*”The door yawned heavily, and the house sank back into morning sleep.”*
I still remember them.
But nothing lasts forever. They finished school.
Emily got into a prestigious creative writing programme, studying under a legendsomeone whod even been mates with Larkin. She invited me to a few workshops, and there she was, shining, already publishing by her first year. I was proud of her. Proud of myself, too*Id seen it, nurtured it, helped her grow.*
Oliver? He was only proud of *her*. After every new story, hed bounce into my classroom, fidgeting while I read, nudging me to pay attention to certain lines. Then hed search my face and ask, *”Well?”* And in that one word, you could hear everythingjoy, hope, the quiet fear of criticism, love, adorationall the things a soul not yet twenty pours into the world.
Olivers mum, though? She never took to Emily. No idea why. And she worked quietly, *precisely*, to unravel them. Never obviousjust enough that neither Oliver nor Emily noticed. She didnt bother recruiting me; she knew Id side against her. But she was always sickly sweet to us both.
You know when someone keeps offering you more tea, more cake, more *everything*, even though youre already stuffed? Thats what talking to her felt like.
Well, she got her way. Oliver went off to study law at Cambridge. Emily told me firstwalked into school with the hollow stare of someone under a spell, announced it like a tragic heroine, then sighed and said it didnt matter. *”Once he graduates, well marry. Besides, Ive got work with a publisher now. Debts to clear. Thisll give me time.”*
And just like that, things settled.
They both studiedjust in different corners of Europe. He a little west of Paris, she a little east. Thats how Emily put it when she visited. But those visits grew rare. Oliver wrote even less*”Cambridge is dull, everythings the same.”*
Then, about a year later, Emily turned up and invited meto her wedding. To a fellow student. *”Hes in the poetry stream,”* she said, as if that were the real hurdle. The way she looked at me? I knew not to ask. And I didnt, because by then, I understood how life worked.
Whats the point in dressing it up? You know how these things go.
Another love story, over. Another case of *”grown-ups know best.”* Another perfectly ordinary family. Soon enough, Oliver would start his own.
Emily never visited again. Moved away with her poet husband. Oliver never came back either.
And that was that.
Until yesterday.
I left school after sixth periodMay, warm, everything bright and young. So *alive*. And there he was: Oliver, older now. Sixteen years, maybe. I recognised him instantly.
*”Hello. I waited for you. Yes, Im fine, thanks. Married, two girls. Work? Ive got my own firm. Emilys husband died. Nine days ago. Shes alone with their daughter now. Lets go see herIve got the car.”*
The way he looked at me? I knew not to ask.
And I didnt. Because by then, I *really* knew how life worked.
