You Are My World
Tom and Lucy lived in the same building, on the fifth floor of a red-brick terrace in Manchester. Tom had just started Year Five and was considered responsible enough to look after five-year-old Lucy, who lived across the landing. Her mother was a surgeon, often called away on weekends for emergencies.
Tom took his duties seriously—feeding her, scolding her when needed, and shielding her from every imagined peril. Lucy, in turn, followed him like a shadow, gazing up at him with wide, solemn eyes that could melt even the grumpiest of souls.
One summer day, Lucy caught tonsillitis. How she managed it in June was anyone’s guess. Tom spent the next few days glued to her side while his mates rang the doorbell, demanding he join them for football in the park.
“Can’t,” Tom said gravely. “Looking after Lucy.”
“Bring her along, then! She can cheer,” suggested Alfie.
“She’s got a fever. Doctor’s orders,” Tom said firmly.
“But who’ll be in goal?” moaned a dismayed Paul.
“Take turns,” Tom offered, shrugging at their crestfallen faces.
“Rubbish. Not the same. We’ll stay in, then,” Paul huffed.
Tom sighed. “Fine. Come up.”
Inside, Lucy sat wrapped in a woolly scarf, flipping through a picture book. Her face lit up when she saw the boys.
“These are my mates—Paul and Alfie,” Tom introduced. “Mind if they hang about?”
“Read to me?” Lucy said, thrusting the book at them with all the authority of a tiny queen.
“Let’s build a den instead,” Paul said, eyeing the round dining table like an architect spotting potential.
“How? We’ve no branches or straw,” Lucy said, eyes bright—whether from fever or excitement, it was hard to tell.
“Don’t need straw. Can we use that blanket?” Paul nodded at the sofa throw. Soon, the table was draped, and all four of them squished underneath. It was hot, cramped, and utterly thrilling.
“Let’s tell scary stories,” Alfie announced. “My grandad fought in the war.”
“Boring,” Paul groaned.
“He had medals. Loads of ’em. Helped get food to London during the Blitz,” Alfie persisted.
“Still boring. People eating each other? Bleugh.”
Lucy shuddered. “That’s horrid!”
“I know better ones,” Paul cut in. “There’s this Black Shadow—a bloke all in black who snatches kids who wander off. Poof! Gone forever.”
Lucy froze. The word “black” alone was terrifying, especially in the dark. She pressed closer to Tom, trembling.
“Enough,” Tom snapped. “You’ve scared her witless. She’ll have nightmares for weeks!”
“I’m not scared,” Lucy lied, voice wobbling.
Just then, the front door clicked open. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The den fell silent. Paul fidgeted. Alfie’s breath hitched. Lucy buried her face in Tom’s chest, his heartbeat loud under her ear.
The blanket lifted. Lucy screamed.
“There you are!” Lucy’s mum stood over them, arms crossed.
Relief flooded Lucy as she scrambled out, clinging to her mother.
“What on earth’s this mess?” her mum demanded, eyeing the dishevelled boys.
“A den! We told scary stories,” Lucy babbled.
“Didn’t frighten you, did it?”
“A bit. Then we heard steps and thought it was the Black Shadow!”
Her mum’s gaze sharpened on the boys—especially Tom. He ducked his head guiltily.
“Right. Pack this up and wash your hands. Lunch in five,” she said, steering Lucy to the kitchen.
That afternoon, Tom finally escaped to football, leaving Lucy to nap—though every time she shut her eyes, the Black Shadow lurked in her mind.
Years rolled by. Tom started secondary school; Lucy, Year One. He outgrew babysitting, though she still trailed after him—asking questions, hiding behind him during thunderstorms, or deploying tears when he tried to leave her behind.
He taught her to skate, reheat soup without burning it, and love adventure books. By sixth form, Tom traded lads’ outings for dates with a pretty classmate, Emily. Once, Lucy glimpsed them kissing behind the bikesheds. Jealousy twisted her stomach into knots.
After school, Tom joined Sandhurst. Homecomings were rare. Lucy missed him terribly—though, selfishly, she was glad no girls hovered around.
One leave, he found her parents out and knocked next door. In his crisp uniform, he looked every inch the officer. Lucy, now sixteen, blushed under his gaze. Over lunch, his eyes kept flicking to her. Her heart thudded when he spoke, as if every word were just for her. Then his parents returned, and he left—leaving her hopelessly flustered.
After Sandhurst, Tom was posted to Cyprus. Lucy studied medicine. Three years later, he came home on leave. She lurked by the window, heart in her throat, every footstep sending it racing.
“He’s grown. Probably marrying soon. You’re just his little neighbour,” her mum said gently.
Lucy knew. But knowing didn’t ease the ache.
Then, one afternoon, a taxi pulled up. Tom stepped out—then opened the back door for a very pregnant woman. Lucy’s world shattered. Married. A baby. She fled to her room, sobbing.
“Told you,” her mum sighed.
Easier said than done. She begged a friend for a weekend in Brighton to escape the misery.
When she returned, Tom was gone. The years blurred. Dr. Lucy Hughes now worked in rehab, mending broken bodies—though her own heart stayed stubbornly unfixed.
Then, one day, whispers rippled through the ward: “Gorgeous Army chap. Wounded in action.”
She knew before she saw him. Tom—older, wearier, but still Tom—limped into her clinic. Masked, she assessed him. He didn’t recognise her.
The nurses flirted shamelessly, dubbing him “The Brooding Captain.” Once, he arrived early for his appointment. This time, she was unmasked. He frowned, something niggling at his memory.
Outside, thunder cracked. Lucy flinched.
“Scared of storms?” Tom teased.
“Since childhood. Thanks to ghost stories about the Black Shadow.”
His gaze sharpened. “Lucy?” He laughed softly. “Of course. I heard your name and didn’t twig. You work here? Brilliant. I’ve thought of you often. You married?”
“Are you?” she countered.
“No. Never found anyone… like you.”
“But—that pregnant woman you brought home—”
Tom blinked. “Emily? My mate’s wife! He couldn’t get leave, so I fetched her from the station. Bloody hell, Luce—all these years, you thought—?”
Realisation dawned. She’d run. Hidden. Wasted time.
Another thunderclap. Lucy instinctively leaned toward him.
“Remember our den?” Tom murmured. “How you screamed when your mum lifted the blanket?”
She nodded, smiling—but duty called.
The next day, he returned with flowers. “Never got you these before. Making amends.” His voice was rough. “I leave in an hour.”
“Your treatment—!”
“Combat injury. Discharged. Dad’s ill. Lucy, I need to—”
The head nurse summoned her. Tom left, words unspoken.
Two weeks later, he barged into her office mid-consultation. “Before you vanish again—marry me.” A velvet box snapped open.
Her patient discreetly slipped out.
“I’ve stayed the course. Even got a job here. Well? Too late?”
“Decades too late,” Lucy whispered, resting her head against his chest. His heartbeat thundered under her ear, just like all those years ago.
Love. We chase it. Misname it. Lose it. Only when it’s gone do we realise: it was everything. And if we’re lucky—just once—it comes back.
