In every year group, no matter how much time passes, the core stays the same the people who keep calling each other, meeting up, holding the circle. When a milestone comes round, the same faces take charge of the details: venue, menu, programme all out of habit, easy and cheerful.
When the guest list is being drawn up, the conversation sharpens. Teachers, of course, have to be invited. But what about the old classmates will everyone be there?
Everyone will be, says Sean firmly. Only Tim Harper isnt on the list. Hes a deadweight, always drunk.
How can Tim not be? shouts Imogen, the bespectacled one with the thick frames. Hell be there! Ive spoken to him.
Imogen, murmurs Violet, the former class rep, he might get sloshed, that would be awkward. I saw him the other night, barely steady on his feet, didnt even recognise me.
Imogen sighs.
Never mind. I know hes getting ready.
Maybe, she adds, for him this reunion means more than it does for all of us put together.
—
Sam was a different sort of student. Softspoken, gentle, never raised his voice or caused a scene. He listened well, helped whenever someone needed it, and was always there. His notebooks were tidy, his handwriting neat, dictation sheets spotless. Physics and maths came easily; formulas seemed to whisper their solutions straight to him. He almost always left Olympiads with a diploma perhaps not first place, but always a result. At assemblies he was placed beside the top students, and a hand on his heart felt less like pride and more like embarrassment thats how he took any compliment.
He dreamed of joining the Royal Military Academy after year nine. He still remembers a schoolorganised open day, riding there with his form tutor. He returned full of enthusiasm, talking about uniforms, drill, discipline, and how they would teach him to be useful. Everyone believed he would make it.
At home, though, things were different. His father died years ago, and his mother drinks.
One day, after a heavy binge, she staggers in at the endofyear ceremony, eyes glassy, hair a mess. When Sam receives his diploma, she suddenly shouts, Well done, Sam! My boy!
He stands there, face flushed, fists clenched, as if he could sink into the floor. His mothers praise lands like an unexpected blast its not the kind of affirmation he needs.
His plans for the academy crumble. He worries his younger sister will be taken into care if he leaves, so he stays on, works evenings, starts skipping school, falls in with the wrong crowd, and things go off the rails.
—
He prepares for the reunion in his own way. He finds a grey suit thats two sizes too big but clean. He spends ages picking a shirt, ironing it, checking the buttons. He shaves carefully, tidies his hair as best as he can. He abstains from drinking for two days, wanting to be himself when everyone gathers.
When he reaches the restaurant, he hesitates at the door. He stands off to the side, out of sight, watching. He watches former classmates hug, show each other phones, joke loudly, laugh as if life now comes effortlessly to them.
He feels embarrassed and uncertain, as if one wrong step could shatter the fragile picture of the evening.
After about an hour he summons the courage and walks in.
—
He stands on the threshold hair clean but untrimmed, suit too large, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes shy and tentative.
Imogen calls out immediately, Sam, over here! This is your spot!
He steps forward. The others perk up: toasts, laughter, music.
Sam drinks almost nothing, eats barely anything he simply sits, listens, watches. Occasionally a faint smile flickers.
When the night draws to a close, Sam rises. His voice trembles, each word feels heavy, as if years of bottled-up feeling finally burst out:
Thank you thank you for inviting me this is probably the best thing thats happened to me in the last fifteen years.
His eyes glisten, a lump rises in his throat, shoulders tighten, hands shake slightly. He is vulnerable, open, like a child who finally believes he will be accepted as he is.
I Im really grateful Sorry if I ever well, if I ever wronged anyone
Then the group choruses, Of course, Sam! Were thrilled youre here! We wouldnt have thought of not inviting you!
His earnest emotions are softened by the rehearsed echo of smiles, pats on the back, loud assurances. Its not compassion its a polite social nicety, nobody wanting to dig deeper. Pure hypocrisy: warm words, slippery eyes, showy concern.
Imogen watches it all, thinking, You didnt really want to invite him, did you?
But the biggest surprise thank God Sam doesnt see the pretense. He believes the words because he has no reason to doubt.
He thanks them, bows a little shyly and leaves among the first to go. He slips out of the hall quietly, without farewells, without waiting, without looking back.
After hes gone, the others keep laughing, swapping old stories, chatting about where they work, how they live, who theyve met and the night circles back to laughter, music, clinking glasses.
—
Late that night, Imogen walks home and spots Sam on a bench in front of the block, under a dim streetlamp. He sits slumped, already drunk, eyes glazed, hands on his knees. He doesnt recognise Imogen.
She steps closer, heart tightening:
Why did you drink yourself, Sam? You held it together earlier, you were yourself why now?
Imogen looks at him, at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the lone lamp, and thinks:
How many lives break quietly, unnoticed, because there was no steady hand, no shoulder, no kind word nearby? And if someone had been there, would Sam be sitting here now, in this illfitting suit, drunk?
The question hangs in the nights silence. No answer comes.
