He had once dreamed of coming to her and saying, “I love you…”
Emily Whitmore placed the last marked pile of exercise books on the edge of her desk. Now, all that was left was to enter the term grades into the register. Outside the staff room windows, night had long since fallen, and snowflakes drifted lazily beneath the glow of the streetlamps.
A metallic clang echoed from the corridor—wet mop slapping the floor. Mrs. Jenkins, the school cleaner (whom even the teachers called “old Jen”), had climbed to the second floor to scrub the hallways. Spotting the light seeping under the staff room door, she grumbled loudly,
“Still here at this hour, trampling my clean floors. Couldn’t they just go home already?” The mop rasped against the linoleum in irritable agreement.
*”No one’s waiting for me. Guess you’ll have to put up with me a little longer, Mrs. Jenkins,”* Emily sighed inwardly, flipping open the grade ledger.
Forty minutes later, she snapped it shut, exhausted, shelved it with the others, and paused. She hadn’t even noticed when the noises outside had ceased. Slipping on her coat before the mirror, she grabbed her handbag, cast a final glance around the empty staff room, and flicked off the light. The floor still gleamed damply under the dim emergency bulb at the far end of the corridor.
Downstairs, the security desk stood unmanned. Emily ducked inside the cubbyhole, hung her key in the glass-fronted cabinet.
“Locked up, key’s in!” she called out, her voice shattering the school’s heavy silence.
No answer. No footsteps. But she knew the place was never truly empty—night security always lingered somewhere in the shadows.
“Goodnight!” she announced, louder this time, before stepping outside.
A few paces from the school gates, she glanced back—just in time to see the elderly caretaker securing the door from within.
Fresh snow dusted the icy footpaths where countless pupils had trodden through the yard. Emily picked her way carefully across the slippery pavement, past the wrought-iron railings.
The street was empty, barely a car passing. Emily quickened her pace.
She’d played teacher with her dolls since childhood, always knowing she’d end up in the classroom. With her mother an English literature teacher, was there ever any doubt? She’d breezed through teacher training college without a hitch.
Few men studied education, and the ones who did only had eyes for the pretty girls—a category Emily never placed herself in. By graduation, she’d neither married nor even dated.
She didn’t mind. There was time. She had a youthful face—often mistaken for a sixth-former. But her mother worried. *”Teaching changes you,”* she’d say. *”The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be to find a good man.”* Her parents bought her a flat, gave her independence.
But what use was independence when the staffroom was a sea of women? Aside from the P.E. teacher (who flirted shamelessly with everyone), the elderly ex-soldier who taught R.E., and the two caretakers, there wasn’t a single prospect in sight.
*”God forbid you end up like me—married late, one child at forty,”* her mother fretted.
But did fretting ever find anyone a husband?
Fairy lights twinkled in the windows of passing homes. Emily hadn’t bothered with a tree. What was the point? She’d spend Christmas at her parents’, same as always. Turning into a quieter side street, she heard footsteps behind her. A prickle of unease crept up her spine. She glanced back.
A tall figure, hood shadowing his face, kept pace several yards behind. Emily gripped her bag tighter, walked faster.
Rounding a corner, she pressed herself against the brickwork, holding her breath. Seconds passed. No footsteps. Unable to bear it any longer, she peered around the edge—and collided with the man.
“What do you want? Why are you following me?” Her voice shook. “I’ll call the police! *Help!*” she yelped for good measure.
The man jerked back his hood.
“Miss Whitmore—it’s me, Daniel Carter.” He smiled.
“*Daniel?*” She barely recognised the broad-shouldered man before her as the lanky boy from her first-ever Year 11 class. “Are you *robbing* me?” she gasped, eyes wide.
“No! I’ve been walking you home for days. It gets dark early, and the alleyways aren’t safe. Tonight, you were late.”
“*Days?*” Emily blinked. “I hadn’t noticed. Tonight was… marking.”
“Did the school already have its Christmas concert?” he asked, still grinning.
“Yesterday.” Reluctantly, she smiled back.
“I loved when they put up that giant tree in the hall—smelled like tinsel and excitement. Impossible to focus on lessons those last days before break.” His tone was wistful. “Come on, I’ll walk you the rest of the way.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I *want* to.” His voice softened. “It’s been years.”
They walked in silence at first. Then Emily asked about his life, his work. He told her he dabbled in everything—computer repairs, sales, planning to open a shop with a mate.
“You’d know him—Tom Reynolds. So if you ever need tech help…”
Outside her flat, Daniel hesitated. “Every time I’ve walked you back, your lights are off. No one’s waiting for you, are they?”
“You’d make a decent detective,” she muttered, thanking him before turning toward the door.
“Not even inviting me up, Miss Whitmore?”
“It’s late. I’m tired.”
The next day, she left school early. She’d barely changed and put the kettle on when the buzzer rang. Expecting her mother on another unannounced visit, she swung the door open—
Daniel stood there, one arm gripping a tied-up Christmas tree, the other balancing a bulky printer-paper box.
“Evening. Had a feeling you didn’t have a tree. Brought decorations too.” His grin was infectious.
“Thanks, but I wasn’t planning—I always go to my mum’s for Christmas.” She watched his smile falter. “Oh, come in.”
He set up the tree by the window, the flat instantly filling with pine. They decorated it together, fingers brushing—both pretending not to notice. Over tea, he asked,
“Can I call you Emily? We’re not in school anymore.”
She liked that he didn’t default to *Em*. Hated that name—it reminded her of some saccharine children’s show.
“Found your Facebook. Saw your friends call you that.”
“What *else* do you know about me?”
He laughed. “Is it too forward if I drop the ‘Miss’? We’re not teacher and student anymore.” Before she could react, he added, “I fancied you rotten back then. You’d go pink whenever you gave someone detention.”
Emily didn’t know how to respond. She’d noticed his glances—but pupils often crushed on teachers. She’d never dared reciprocate.
Her first class. The leavers’ prom. Daniel had asked her to dance. They’d waltzed alone under everyone’s stares—the other boys too awkward, the adults absent. Her mother had taught her the steps.
“You’re the reason I buckled down. Couldn’t bear looking stupid in front of you.” His gaze held hers. “I told myself I’d make something of myself—enough to deserve you. I dreamed of coming back one day… but I ran out of patience.”
She studied him—no trace of the boy remained.
“Daniel, I’m older than you.”
“Four years? Nobody cares about that anymore.”
“You’re seriously thinking—*marriage?*”
“I’ve loved you for years. Give me a chance. Please.”
*Why not?* Her cheeks burned. *Parents will be thrilled. No more ‘biological clock’ lectures.*
“Alright,” she whispered.
His smile lit up the room. “Brilliant. Your place for dinner, mine for drinks and fireworks. You won’t regret it.”
They stood, lingering.
“It’s late,” he finally said, hoarse. “Tomorrow?”
His eyes held too much—hope, tenderness, *want*. She looked away.
The moment the door shut, she exhaled, heart pounding.
“Mum? Not coming for New Year’s. And… I won’t be alone.”
Her mother arrived within the hour, demanding details. Emily didn’t mention he’d once been her student—her mother, a school inspector, would *never* approve.
By summer term, a slender gold band circled Emily’s finger, her loose dresses unable to hide the swell beneath. Daniel met her after school every day.
The unmarried staff watched them leave with envy, the girls whispering about her ’maternity chic’.
Whatever anyone thought—Emily and Daniel didn’t care.
