**The Bouquet**
Emma lay on her bed, eyes half-shut. Across the room, Holly sat cross-legged, reading aloud from a textbook. Emma’s phone erupted with a pop ringtone. Holly snapped her book shut and shot her friend a disapproving look.
Emma answered reluctantly. A second later, she sat bolt upright, then tossed her phone aside, sprang up, and darted around the cramped dorm room, stuffing a duffel bag with clothes from the wardrobe.
“Where are you off to? What’s happened?” Holly fretted.
“Neighbour just rang—Mum’s been taken to hospital. Heart attack.” Emma yanked the zip shut and marched to the door, where their coats hung and wellies sat in a messy pile.
“But the exam’s tomorrow! She’s in good hands—just sit it, then go,” Holly said, standing as Emma tugged on her boots.
“Listen, Hol, sort it with the faculty office. I’ll deal with it all when I’m back. I’ll resit the term. My coach leaves in forty minutes.” Emma was already fastening her coat.
“Text me how your mum is,” Holly called, but Emma had already dashed out. The clatter of heels faded down the corridor.
Holly sighed, then spotted Emma’s phone charger on the bed. She grabbed it and bolted barefoot into the hall.
“Emma! Emma, stop!” she yelled, thundering downstairs.
The front door slammed. Holly vaulted the last steps, shoved the door open, and nearly tumbled onto the pavement.
“Emma!”
Emma turned, saw the cable in Holly’s hand, and jogged back.
“Cheers,” she muttered, then sprinted off again.
“Sinclair, what’s this racket?” the porter, Mrs. Higgins, barked from her desk. “One of you nearly takes the door off, the other’s out here in her bare feet—are you lot high?”
“Sorry, Mrs. H. We don’t do that,” Holly said, shifting uncomfortably. Grit from the icy path dug into her soles.
“Emma’s mum’s in hospital. It’s freezing—can I go?” She didn’t wait for an answer, darting back upstairs.
“Oh, Lord!” Mrs. Higgins plonked into her chair and crossed herself. “God save us!”
Back in the room, Holly brushed the grit off her feet, tidied Emma’s mess, slipped on slippers, and grabbed the kettle. A hot cuppa, then back to revising.
Darkness had fallen when a timid knock came at the door.
“Who’s there?” Holly called. No reply. She huffed, got up, and opened it.
“Alright?” Ethan stood there, holding a small bouquet.
“Come in.” She waited till he stepped inside before adding, “Emma’s gone home.”
“But her exam’s tomorrow,” he frowned.
“I’ll sort it with the office. She’ll resit after break.” Holly eyed the flowers.
“These are for you,” Ethan said, handing them over.
“Ta. Fancy a brew?” She took a jar from the windowsill.
“I’ll fetch water. You get comfy,” she smiled, then slipped out.
Ethan only toed off his trainers. Two steps brought him to Emma’s bed. He sat, running a hand over the cheap duvet like he was smoothing her hair.
Holly returned, set the jar of flowers on the desk, stepped back, and admired them.
“Lovely. What are they?”
“Sweet peas,” Ethan said. “Best be off.” He stood.
“Did you and Emma have plans?” Holly blurted. She didn’t want him to leave.
“Yeah. Scored tickets to that gig at the O2.”
“Seriously? Take me, then. Waste not, yeah?”
Ethan hesitated.
“You’ve got your exam tomorrow.”
“So?” Holly waved it off. “Been revising all day—need a break.”
He weighed it up. Emma was gone, tickets going spare. They’d only just started seeing each other—nothing serious. Going with her flatmate wasn’t betrayal, right?
“Alright,” he said.
“Brill!” Holly clapped, bouncing. “Wait outside—just need to change.”
“Right.” Ethan laced up quickly and stepped out.
Five minutes later, Holly emerged. Ethan noticed she’d touched up her mascara and lipstick, pinned her hair up fancy. How’d she managed that?
“Best get a move on,” he urged.
At the gig, Holly danced, arms aloft, shouting along in the crowd’s euphoric roar. She kept glancing at Ethan. He caught her vibe, loosened up, and yelled along too.
After, they walked back, buzzing.
“Loved that bit where—” Holly hummed a riff.
“Mm. And when they—” Ethan echoed another tune, even mangled the lyrics.
They reached the dorm. Holly jiggled the locked door.
“Mrs. H’s on tonight. No way she’ll open up. What now?” She turned to Ethan, flustered.
“Come on.” He hooked her arm and steered her round the building. Two girls were clambering through a ground-floor window. “Quick—after them!”
He boosted Holly up. Hands yanked her inside.
A whistle trilled round the corner.
“Hurry!” Holly hissed from the window.
Ethan hauled himself in. Holly snapped the window shut, yanked the curtain. The whistle faded. They all exchanged looks.
“Cheers, girls. We’ll head up,” Ethan nudged Holly toward the door.
Giggles followed them. They raced upstairs, collapsed into Holly’s room, and burst out laughing.
“Should go. Keep it down,” Ethan said, catching his breath.
The room was dark—no time for lights.
“Stay. I fancy you. Proper do,” Holly whispered, like someone might hear.
She pressed against him, tilted her head back, lips parted—
Emma returned to the silent dorm at term’s end. Holly and Ethan were still away, like most students. Emma arranged her missed exam, showed the hospital letter. The crisis had passed, but Mum stayed on.
She scraped through the exam. Lectures resumed, but Holly never came back, never answered calls. The office said she’d taken leave—health reasons.
Soon, a new girl moved in. Uni, Ethan… No time to wonder about Holly. Soon, she was forgotten. Ethan never told Emma about the gig, what happened after. It felt like a dream, unreal.
Twenty-one years later…
“Ma, Dad, I’m back!” A girl—Ethan’s double—walked in.
“How’s uni?” He glanced up from his paper.
“Let the girl change,” Vera called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
At the table, their daughter grinned.
“Met this girl at uni today—spitting image of me. Everyone noticed.”
“Funny that. They say everyone’s got a doppelgänger. Rare to meet them. More mash?” Vera asked Ethan.
“Dad, you zoned out,” Marina prodded.
“Ta, I’m stuffed. You talk to her?”
“Course. She’s a finalist. Get this—her name’s Claire. Claire Summers.”
“At uni, I shared with Summers… Holly, was it? Left after first year. Remember, Ethan?” Vera eyed him.
“Yeah! Claire Summers. Pretty name, eh?” Marina beamed.
“Only had eyes for you. Didn’t notice others,” Ethan said, sipping tea—then choked. “How many times? Scalded my tongue.”
“Sorry.” Vera jumped up, added cold water to his glass.
“Don’t want it.” He sulked off.
“Honestly, that alike?” Vera watched him go.
“Everyone says so…”
Ethan flopped on the sofa, feigned sleep, but his mind raced. *Coincidence? So it happened. Why’d she leave? Idiot. What were you thinking?*
“Ethan, up—you’ll ruin your sleep. You ill?” Vera hovered.
“Nah.”
He barely slept. Next morning, he called in sick—dentist, he claimed—but drove to the dorm.
“Claire Summers live here?” he asked the porter.
A woman, different but eerily like Mrs. Higgins, eyed him.
“You are?”
“Her uncle. Passing through…”
Three girls clattered downstairs.
“That’s her. Summers, visitor,” the porter called.
Claire eyed Ethan. “Who’re you?”
Her mates waited by the door.
“Go on—I’ll catch up.”
Ethan stepped aside. “Not her uncle, eh?” the porter muttered. “Calling police—”
“Don’t.” He turned to Claire. “Your mum—Holly Summers? You’re a September baby?”
“Who *are* you?”
“You didn’t answer.”
Claire weighed it up. “Yeah. Twenty-fifth. Wait—I reckon I know you. Where’ve you been?” Her tone sharpened.
The porter eavesdropped openly.
“”Let’s grab a coffee,” Ethan said, and as they walked away, he knew some stories—like bouquets—never truly wither, they just change hands with time.
