**Diary Entry**
I once dreamed of coming to you and saying I love you…
Emily Whitaker placed the last marked exercise book on top of the pile at the edge of her desk. Now, she had to finalise the term grades in the register. Outside the staff room window, night had long since fallen, and beneath the glow of the streetlamps, snowflakes drifted lazily to the ground.
A metallic clatter echoed from the corridor—the mop bucket toppling over—followed by the wet slap of a rag hitting the floor. It was Doris, the caretaker, whom even the teachers affectionately called “Mrs. D,” shuffling upstairs to clean the hallways. Spotting the strip of light beneath the staff room door, she muttered loudly enough to be heard:
“Sat in here till all hours, traipsing about, acting like they’ve nowhere better to be…”
The mop bristles scraped unhappily against the linoleum, as if agreeing with her.
*Well, Doris, you’ll have to put up with me for another half-hour. No one’s waiting for me at home.* Emily sighed to herself and flipped open the register.
Forty minutes later, she shut it with a tired thud, shelved it with the others, and only then noticed the silence outside. She pulled on her coat in front of the mirror, grabbed her handbag, gave the staff room one last glance, and flicked off the light. The floors were still damp, glistening faintly under the dim emergency bulb at the end of the corridor.
Downstairs, the security desk was unmanned. Emily stepped into the little booth and hung her key in the glass-fronted cabinet.
“Locked up, key’s in place!” she called out, shattering the school’s evening hush.
No answer. No one emerged. But she knew the building was never truly empty—someone always kept watch overnight.
“Goodnight!” she announced pointedly before stepping outside.
A few paces from the school gates, she glanced back and spotted the elderly security guard bolting the door behind her.
The icy pavement in the courtyard, worn slick by hundreds of pupils, was already dusted with fresh snow. Emily picked her way carefully across and pushed through the wrought-iron gates.
The street was deserted, even cars a rare sight. She quickened her pace.
Growing up, Emily had played school with her dolls, then her friends—always knowing she’d teach. What else could she be, with a mother who taught English literature? University had been effortless.
There’d been few men on her course, and most had only noticed the pretty girls—a category Emily never placed herself in. By graduation, she’d neither married nor even dated.
It didn’t bother her. Time enough for that.
She looked younger than her years—frequently mistaken for a sixth-former—but her mother fretted. Teaching left its mark, she insisted; the longer Emily stayed single, the harder it’d be to find a good match. So her parents bought her a flat, granting her independence.
But what was independence worth when the staff room was just as devoid of prospects? Aside from the P.E. teacher (who flirted with anything in a skirt), the D&T instructor (ex-Army, already a grandfather twice over), and two grey-haired caretakers?
“Don’t follow my path—late marriage, a single child at forty,” her mother often warned.
As if fretting would conjure a husband.
Fairy lights twinkled in windows up and down the street. Emily hadn’t bothered with a tree this year. Why bother? She’d spend Christmas with her parents, as always.
Turning into a quiet side street, footsteps suddenly sounded behind her. Unease prickled her neck. She glanced back.
A tall figure in a hooded jacket trailed a short distance away, face shadowed. Emily tightened her grip on her handbag and walked faster.
At the next corner, she ducked behind a wall, holding her breath. Seconds passed. No footsteps. Heart hammering, she peered out—and collided with the man.
“What do you want?” Her voice shook. “Stop following me! I’ll call the police!” For good measure, she added a shrill, “Help!”
The man pushed back his hood.
“Miss Whitaker—it’s me. Daniel Carter.” He smiled.
“Daniel?” Emily stared. The broad-shouldered man before her bore little resemblance to the lanky teen from her first Year 11 class. “Are you robbing me?” she blurted.
“What? No! I’ve walked you home every night this week. It’s dark, the alleys aren’t safe, and—well, you were late tonight.”
“Every night?” She frowned. “I never noticed.”
He grinned. “Decorated the school tree yet?”
“Yesterday.” She relaxed slightly.
“I always loved that. The whole corridor smelling of pine and tangerines. Could never focus those last days before break.” His voice softened. “Let me walk you.”
“You needn’t bother. It’s just round the—”
“I haven’t seen you in years. Please.”
They fell into step. Emily asked after his life; he’d dabbled in IT repairs, now planned to open a shop with a mate—”You remember Chris Bennett?”
At her door, Daniel hesitated.
“Your lights are never on when I leave. No one waiting for you.”
“Should’ve been a detective,” she quipped, thanking him before turning to her building.
“Not inviting me up, Miss Whitaker?”
“Too late. Another time.”
The next evening, her doorbell rang just as she’d kicked off her shoes. Expecting her mother, she swung the door open—only to find Daniel clutching a potted spruce and a printer-paper box crammed with baubles.
“Had a feeling you didn’t have a tree.” His grin faltered as she protested—she never bothered, always spent Christmas with her parents—but then she stepped aside.
The flat filled with the crisp scent of pine as they decorated, hands brushing, glances skittering away. Over tea, Daniel asked, “Can I call you Emily? We’re not in class. And ‘Miss Whitaker’ is a mouthful.”
She liked that—no childish “Emmy.”
“Found your socials. Saw your friends call you that.”
“What else do you know?” She stiffened.
He laughed. “Can I say ‘you’ now? We’re not teacher and student anymore.” Before she could react, he added, “I had the biggest crush on you back then. You’d go pink every time you gave someone detention.”
Emily didn’t know how to respond. She’d noticed his stares—but pupils often fancied teachers, especially young ones. She’d never have crossed that line.
Her first class held a special place in her memory. At prom, Daniel had asked her to dance. They’d waltzed alone under the others’ scrutiny—none of the boys knew how. Her mother had taught her.
“You know why I buckled down in school? Didn’t want to look thick in front of you.” He rubbed his neck. “Got decent marks, even in maths. Wanted to be someone you’d… you know. Respect.” He met her eyes. “I’d planned to wait longer—build a proper life first—but… what if someone else got there first?”
She studied him—the sharp jaw, the warmth in his gaze. No trace of the boy remained.
“Daniel, I’m older—”
“Four years. Doesn’t matter now.”
“You’re serious? About—me?”
He leaned forward. “I’ve loved you for years. Let me prove it’s not just some schoolboy fantasy. Give me a chance.”
*Why not?* she thought, cheeks burning. *Mum’ll stop nagging. And he’s… different now.*
“Alright.”
His face lit up. “Brilliant! I’ll bring champagne. You won’t regret it.”
At the door, they hovered, the air thick with something unspoken.
“I should go,” he rasped.
She nodded, pulse racing.
Alone, Emily pressed her back to the door, heart pounding.
“Mum? Change of plans—I’m staying in this New Year’s. No, I won’t be alone.” She called her mother the next day.
By summer term, a slender gold band circled her finger, her blouses loose over her swelling bump. Daniel met her after school every afternoon.
The other teachers watched them go with thinly veiled envy. The girls whispered about her flowing dresses.
And whatever anyone thought—Emily and Daniel didn’t care.
