“Hey. We never did go to the cinema together back then,” he blurted out, forgetting all the carefully prepared lines he’d rehearsed in his head.
Paul and Rita sat on the riverbank, dreaming aloud about university, careers, and buying a flat one day…
“I’ll get a top-notch foreign car. And we’ll make it—I know we will,” Paul said, skipping a stone across the water.
“We’ll go on holiday—the seaside or maybe abroad,” Rita added with a laugh, watching the ripples fade.
“Yeah, but first we’ve got to get into uni. God, I’m so sick of studying,” she sighed.
“We’ll make it,” Paul said, pulling her close.
They were convinced no one had ever loved like they did, that nothing could ever tear them apart.
“Let’s head home. Mum’s probably worried. And it’s getting cold.” Rita stood from the bench and winced—her new shoes had rubbed her feet raw. She kicked them off and walked barefoot over the cool stone pavement.
“Fancy the cinema tomorrow? There’s a brilliant film on,” Paul said as they strolled, chatting about nothing and everything.
“See you tomorrow,” Rita whispered outside her house, rising on tiptoes to kiss his cheek before darting off to her front door.
“So, I’ll grab the tickets then?” he called after her.
Rita didn’t answer. She just smiled from the doorway before vanishing inside.
The city still slept, but June’s short night had ended, dawn smothering the stars overhead. For these former school-leavers, adulthood had officially begun.
Paul crept into his flat, careful not to wake his mum. He undressed and collapsed into bed, drifting off with the easy confidence of someone who believed tomorrow was guaranteed.
By noon, he was under Rita’s window. She peeked out, then dashed downstairs a minute later.
“Got the tickets,” Paul said, waving them in front of her.
“Sorry, Paul, I can’t. Mum’s sister just arrived. She’s married some German bloke and they’re moving abroad. She left us her flat in London—we have to go tomorrow so she can show us everything. I’m moving to London.”
“When are you coming back?” Paul asked, still not quite processing it.
“Dunno. I’ll be applying to unis there.”
“What about me? What about us? We were supposed to do this together—”
“Paul, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I’m not moving to the moon. You could visit. Why don’t you apply to a London uni too?” Her eyes lit up. “Come with me!”
“And live where? What would your parents say? I don’t have some wealthy aunt handing me a flat, no savings either. How do I tell my mum? It’s just her and me—”
“We’ll figure something out,” Rita said breezily.
“When are you leaving?” His voice was flat.
“Tomorrow morning. I’ve still got to pack. It’s all so sudden… Paul, my parents won’t leave me behind, no matter how much I beg. If you love me, you’ll find a way.”
“And if you loved me—” He cut himself off with a grimace, turned, and strode away without looking back.
Rita called after him, but he didn’t stop. He even broke into a run at one point. Only when she was long out of sight did his steps slow, dragging under the weight of it all. A howling emptiness filled his chest. *Rita’s leaving. She’ll make new friends, forget me… And who am I? Just some bloke from a nowhere town.*
“Fine. Go, then. I’ll manage. I’ll make it. You’ll regret it,” he muttered under his breath.
At home, he collapsed onto his bed, face to the wall, and didn’t move for two days. His mum nearly called an ambulance, convinced he was ill.
“You need to start prepping for exams, Paul. If you don’t get into uni, it’s the army for you—and Rita won’t come back for a failure.”
That snapped him out of it. He forced himself to study, though Rita’s face swam behind every page. Between sessions, he punished himself on the pull-up bar in the yard, exhausting his body so his mind couldn’t dwell on her. He’d achieve everything they’d dreamed of, then show up in London and— But first, he had to get in.
And he did, to his mother’s pride. Every day, he waited for a letter from Rita. He’d have written first, but he didn’t even have her address. Stupid, stupid—storming off like a child, not seeing her off, not asking… He’d go to her now, but how could he find her in a city of millions? Even the neighbours couldn’t help—no one had their new address.
All through uni, Paul clung to the hope that Rita would write or return. In his final year, recruiters from major firms courted promising graduates. Paul applied to a new factory just outside London. Closer to Rita. Maybe he’d even run into her.
His mum blessed the move. Within six months, he had a flat. A year later, he married Lucy, a quick-witted, brown-eyed accountant. They named their daughter Margaret.
“I don’t like the name. Sounds so old-fashioned,” Lucy pouted.
“It’s timeless. Maggie, even. Classy, right?” Paul insisted.
Ten years on, Paul was deputy director. He had a big, well-furnished house and a luxury car. His mum helped with the deposit after selling her flat, and she moved in to help with Maggie.
Business trips took Paul across Europe—contracts in Italy, supplier meetings in Germany. The provincial lad was now a polished executive.
Then Rita appeared in a dream. She stood on the riverbank, the current rushing behind her, just like after graduation. *”We never did go to the cinema,”* she said sadly.
The more time passed, the less he thought of her—until that dream. After it, she haunted him. Where was she? What was her life like? (He forbade himself from imagining her married.) The urge to find her, to flaunt his success—*without her*—returned.
One lunch break, he searched her name on social media, filtering by London. Hundreds of profiles popped up, but not hers. Only when he added their hometown did he spot her.
Paul devoured the photos. A stunning house with a pool. Rita playing with a Rottweiler on a manicured lawn. Holding hands with a five-year-old boy…
Her bio was sparse: *Living in Germany. Married. Raising my son…* The city’s name was unpronounceable. *Her lucky break,* he thought bitterly. She’d surpassed even their dreams. His life was enviable too—yet his chest ached.
He typed a short message: *Stumbled on your profile. So glad you’re doing well.* No reply. Only then did he notice she hadn’t logged in for two years.
For weeks, he wondered what had happened. Then it hit him—the profile existed *for him.* She’d listed their hometown, hoping he’d find it. *She was looking for me.* The thought sent a stupid rush of joy through him.
Memories of Rita gnawed at him. He called an old schoolmate, now a policeman, and begged for help tracking her parents’ address.
“London? You’re kidding,” his friend said.
“Please. They didn’t just vanish, did they?”
“Or moved abroad with her. Fine—for you, I’ll try.”
Days later, his friend called back. “They sold their London flat two years after moving. Father’s passport details were in the records. Got a pen?”
Lately, Lucy had noticed Paul glued to his laptop. One day, while he was out, she snooped—and found Rita’s saved profile.
When he got home, she confronted him. “How long have you been cheating?”
“What? How could you think that?”
“Then who’s *this?*” She jabbed a finger at the screen.
“Just an old schoolmate. I stumbled across her profile.”
“‘*Just*.’” Lucy echoed. “Mum said you had some schoolgirl sweetheart. Still hung up? Is that why you named our daughter Margaret?”
*Bingo.*
“All these years—the house, the car, the promotions. You wanted *her* to see. Wanted her to regret leaving. But you can’t rewind time. The Rita you’re hunting? She’s gone. She’s got her own life—family she won’t ditch for you.”
Lucy’s voice trembled. “Honestly? I wish you *would* meet her. You’re stuck in the past, but face-to-face, you’ll see it’s gone for good. Then maybe you’ll let it go.”
Paul swore she was wrong—that he loved *them* now. But the address taunted him.
Months later, he cracked. In London, Rita’sRita’s mother opened the door, weary eyes widening in recognition before softening with pity, and Paul knew—before she even spoke—that the girl he’d been chasing was long gone, just a ghost between the pages of his youth, and it was time to close the book.
