“Hey there, Marianna. How long has it been? Fifteen years? Maybe more?”
“Probably more. But you haven’t changed a bit.”
“You have, though. Even lovelier than before.”
Valentine stared at the face of her once-best friend, hardly believing they’d actually run into each other—literally nose to nose—at the children’s dance school where they’d both brought their daughters for a free trial lesson.
“Thanks, Val,” Marianna said with a faint smile.
She wanted to return the compliment, but the right words escaped her. All the good ones had dried up over fifteen years ago, the last time they’d spoken. That conversation had been painful, messy, and Marianna still shuddered at the memory.
“Which one’s yours?” Valentine asked. “Son or daughter?”
“Daughter,” Marianna replied. “Veronica. She’s ten. And you?”
“I’ve got a girl too, just turned nine. Did you have her with Edward? Did you two ever end up getting married?”
Marianna blinked in surprise. Did Valentine still believe, after all this time, that she’d stolen her ex-lover and married him? All these years, and Val seemed exactly the same.
“Let’s grab a coffee downstairs,” Marianna suggested. “Easier to talk there.”
Valentine tensed up. The idea of sitting down with the woman she’d once seen as a rival clearly didn’t thrill her. But after a brief pause, she nodded. So much time had passed. They’d both built separate lives—why keep up the distance?
“Alright.”
They walked down in silence, stealing glances at each other. Both were burning to ask how life had turned out for the other, but neither dared, pretending the past didn’t exist.
They chatted about everything and nothing. Valentine had moved back to town with her husband and daughter two years ago—her mum had fallen ill, needed care, and Val had convinced her husband to relocate.
“It wasn’t easy,” she admitted, “but Ian’s amazing. Kind, thoughtful. I’m so lucky to have him.”
Marianna smiled. So Valentine *had* found love, had a good man and a daughter. Did that mean she wasn’t bitter anymore? But then, barely a minute later:
“And you? Did you marry Edward? Have his child? Are you happy with him?”
Marianna flinched. Why did life have to be so complicated? Two little girls had met in a sandpit, grew up side by side, survived school together, only for their friendship to shatter over something so stupid. Marianna had been *sure* Val understood the truth eventually. Apparently not.
“Val,” Marianna said carefully, “do you actually still believe there was anything between me and Edward? We talked. I *explained*. I thought you got it—just pretended not to because you were hurt.”
Valentine pressed her lips together, a habit Marianna remembered from childhood. Whenever Val felt wronged, outmanoeuvred, or just wanted to sulk, those lips thinned, making her look like a stubborn little girl again.
“I haven’t thought about either of you in years,” Valentine muttered—a lie so obvious Marianna almost laughed.
“You’ve spent fifteen years convinced I married Edward, that I built my happiness on yours. Now you’re saying you *never* thought about us?”
Valentine smirked bitterly, staring past her. Marianna studied her old friend’s profile, wondering if she’d ever truly moved on, if the resentment still festered.
“I mean it,” Valentine repeated. “After that last talk… I cut you both out. And I never believed you when you said nothing happened.”
*So she never forgave me.* Marianna sighed, then dug out her phone, scrolling before handing it over.
“Look. That’s my husband, Victor. Victor *Samson*, the awkward bloke who used to follow me around. The one you called boring.”
Valentine squinted at the photos, eyes widening, lips twitching. She zoomed in, scrutinising every detail before looking up, stunned.
“You *actually* married him? I thought you were joking! And your daughter’s his?”
“Her and my son,” Marianna said. “Andrew’s almost thirteen, Veronica’s ten. I’m happy. Just like you, Val. And there was *nothing* with Edward. He made it all up to drive us apart—and to dump you without the guilt.”
Valentine’s lips pressed tight again. Marianna clenched her fists. How long were they going to dig up the past? Their friendship could’ve survived if not for Edward playing puppet master.
They’d met at five, neighbours from different floors. A shared sandpit, a fight over a doll, tears—then Marianna handing it over with a smile. *”You play. I’ll wait.”* That small kindness sparked a bond that lasted through school, university, until Edward arrived in second year.
“*Marianna!*” Valentine had gasped then. “*I’m in love! He’s perfect!*”
Marianna had been thrilled. Val never showed interest in anyone before. But within weeks, something twisted. Val started snipping at her, accusing her of flirting, of stealing Edward’s attention—even though Marianna was already with Victor.
Then, just before New Year’s, Edward cornered Marianna.
“You know I’m with Valentine,” she snapped when he confessed his *feelings*.
He smirked. “*With* her? We shagged a couple times. That’s not a relationship.”
Disgusted, Marianna chucked him out. The next day, Valentine stormed in, hysterical.
“*How could you?!* You *knew* I loved him! You *knew* we were together, and you—”
Marianna froze. “*What?*”
“He *told* me everything! How you came onto him, said we’d never last! You threw yourself at him!”
“That’s *not*—”
A slap cut her off. Valentine, trembling:
“I’m *pregnant*, and he doesn’t care—because of *you*! I *hate* you!”
Marianna never got to explain. Val vanished, moved cities. Marianna heard later she’d lost the baby.
Now, fifteen years later, standing by the dance studio, Valentine asked quietly, “Do you hate *me*? For hitting you?”
Marianna shook her head. “You were hurt. Hormonal. I just wish we’d talked properly. Fifteen years of carrying this…”
Valentine turned, a tiny smile forming. “You know what I just realised?”
“What?”
“If not for Edward… I’d never have met Ian.”
Marianna smiled as Veronica bounded over. Val’s daughter—a mini-Val—raced to her too.
“What about taking the girls to the park this weekend?” Valentine asked.
Marianna agreed.
Their friendship would never be what it was. But maybe, just maybe, the weight of those fifteen years could finally lift.
