**Another Problem…**
“El, please come with me,” whined Stacy, tugging at her sleeve.
“No. I don’t know anyone there. Go alone or ask Becky or Kate,” replied Ellie, nose-deep in her revision notes. “Exams are coming up.”
“Kate’s cramming, Becky won’t go without her precious Jake, and going alone makes me look desperate for Liam.”
“Are you *not*?” Ellie smirked.
“El, *pleeease*…” Stacy clasped her hands like a prayer.
“Fine. But if you ditch me there, I swear—” Ellie warned, peeling herself off the sofa.
One of the older students had parents working abroad for a year, leaving their London flat free for weekend gatherings. Upperclassmen, former students, and the odd misfit from other courses would show up, exchanging wisdom (or just pretentious chatter) with the wide-eyed freshers.
Stacy had stumbled in once after dating a third-year who’d since ghosted her. Now, she was fixated on Liam. Exams meant no campus run-ins—hence the grovelling.
Ellie threw on jeans and an oversized white shirt, artfully half-tucked, smudged her eyeliner, shook out her hair, and turned to Stacy, who was practically vibrating by the door.
“Waiting for an invitation, are we?” Ellie deadpanned.
“Wow. The smoky eye suits you. Very ‘mysterious Bond girl’,” Stacy quipped.
“One condition: if Liam’s not there, we leave.”
“Deal!”
The door swung open to a woman in jeans, a rumpled bloke’s shirt, and a cigarette dangling from her lips, wild curls framing her face. She squinted through smoke, jerked her head toward the noise inside, and vanished. Music and chatter oozed from the flat.
“Keep your shoes on—nobody does that here,” Stacy whispered, though her confidence was as shaky as Ellie’s. A table held half-eaten crisps, cheap wine, and vodka. A lad lounged with two girls on the sofa; two others bickered over football stats. A couple swayed by the window—if you could call shuffling in a shoebox “dancing.” Nobody spared the newcomers a glance. Or if they did, it lasted a millisecond. *Freshers. What’s there to say?*
They claimed a vacant sofa. The door buzzed—the curly-haired woman reappeared with two lads, greeted like returning war heroes. Even the dancers abandoned their shuffle to fist-bump them.
“That’s him!” Stacy bolted over. Liam answered with the enthusiasm of a wet sock. The other boy—taller, older, unfairly handsome—locked eyes with Ellie. She looked away, cheeks burning.
“Hi. Bored?” He dropped beside her. Up close, he looked even older. “Haven’t seen you before. Fancy a dance?” His hand was warm and rough as he pulled her up.
They “danced” (read: shuffled) by the window. Soft music played as he asked about her course, halls, family… People drifted in and out—Ellie half-suspected the flat had secret doors.
Stacy reappeared, scowling. “Leaving.”
“Me too,” Ellie sighed, glancing at her dance partner.
“I’ll walk you. Just gotta say bye.”
Outside, Stacy kicked a pebble. “Prat,” she muttered, meaning Liam.
Ellie barely heard, mind replaying the last hour—until the boy jogged out.
“So, introductions? Chris.”
“Chris *Harper*? Captain of the uni football team? *That’s* where I’ve seen you!” Stacy squeaked.
“You follow football?” Chris raised an eyebrow.
“Dated a superfan. Never missed a match.” Stacy giggled. “This is *mental*. Actual Chris Harper!”
She barrelled into chatter, desperate to monopolise him. *One guy flakes, another falls in her lap.* Chris clocked it.
“Where d’you live, Stace?”
“I’ll show you!” She monopolised the walk home. Ellie trailed quietly.
“That’s me. Next block’s Ellie’s. See you around?” Stacy beamed.
“Bye,” Ellie mumbled, turning toward her building.
“Ellie, wait!” Chris called. Stacy’s face fell.
The evening was cool after the day’s heat. They lingered by her door, neither wanting to leave. Chris admitted he wrote for a local paper, dreamed of TV. “Small start, but mark my words—I’ll get there.”
“You’ll teach, yeah? Lifelong dream, kids and all that?”
“What’s *that* supposed to mean?”
“Just asking!” He grinned. “Gimme your number.”
“You don’t have one?” She handed over her phone. He dialled his own—*smooth*—and pocketed it. Her stomach fizzed.
Stacy rang that night. “Bloody hell, you dark horse! Chris *Harper*? Spill. Snogged yet?”
“Went straight home. Exams.” *Phone exchange? Nope.*
He called two days later, just as she’d given up. Exams done, summer freedom beckoning. He took her paddleboarding, then café-hopping…
They met almost daily. Ellie fell hard. His beat-up car ferried them to countryside walks, dips in lakes…
One rainy evening, he suggested his mate’s flat. She tensed when he used his own key.
“Where’s your *mate*? Bring girls here often?” She edged toward the stairs.
“Just tea and chat. Mate’s in Spain—I’m flat-sitting.” He caught her wrist.
She stayed. *In love, reckless.* It happened softly. He was tender, careful…
They met there often. Then he left for a “work trip.”
Months later, Stacy dropped a bomb.
“Miss him? Saw you two. Fyi—he’s *married*.”
“Shut up. You’re jealous.”
“Kid, too.”
The pieces fit: daytime-only dates, dodging town, “late-night writing” excuses.
She texted him a fury of accusations, switched off her phone.
Then the nausea hit.
*Pregnant.* They’d been careful—except *that* first time.
*First year. A baby? Mum’ll kill me.* She hated him, herself. The clinic doctor’s disdain, the cold gown, the needle’s sting—then nothing.
Mum noticed only her pallor. Lectures resumed. Ellie ached for Chris, half-wanted him back.
Then bespectacled Neil slid into her lecture. Gangly, thick-lensed, academically brilliant, romantically ignored.
“You’re seeing Chris Harper?” he whispered.
“Your point?”
“Lovely wife. One-year-old.”
“Why tell me?”
“So you ditch the fantasy. He’ll string you along with lies. Fights, drama—why would he bother?” Neil adjusted his glasses. “I fancy you. Noticed?”
She *had*. But—*Chris* versus *Neil*? Love didn’t vanish with betrayal.
Yet one evening, Chris materialised by her door.
“Ellie, talk to me. I’m *lost* without you. I lied because I couldn’t lose you—”
She wavered at his desperation. Then:
“*Marriage means nothing*? You’re *not free*!”
“You all want weddings! Family’s just *work*, *problems*—I didn’t want that between us.”
“*I’m* a problem?!” She fled.
Later, she spotted his car, dragged Neil into a performative cheek-peck. Chris never returned.
Neil grew on her—sharp, funny, a seminar lifesaver.
“You’d ace journalism,” she said once.
“Nah. Teaching’s my thing. Less gossip, more impact.”
Mum adored him. “That boy’s going *places*.”
He proposed final year. Their wedding followed graduation. Neil’s pedagogy articles led to a textbook, then a ministerial role—reluctantly accepted after Ellie’s nudging. She taught part-time; their daughter bloomed.
Stacy reappeared, giddy: “Ran into *Liam*! We’re dating! Oh—Chris is in London. Divorced, remarried some editor’s daughter. *Classic*.”
Ellie’s chest clenched. *”Family’s problems,” my arse.*
Years later, teaching privately, she met “Daisy Harper”—Chris’s daughter. His ex-wife confirmed: “He’s in London. Journalism didn’t pan out.”
Walking home, Ellie smiled. *His dream city. My quiet love. No complaints.*
Maybe love wasn’t fireworks—just steady warmth, no lies attached.
