Ten Years Wasted
“What on earth are you saying, Emily?!” cried Charlotte, snatching the cold coffee mug from the table. “Ten years! Ten years we’ve been best friends, and you—”
“And what?!” interrupted Emily, leaping up from the sofa. “Was I supposed to report my every move to you? You were the one who said you were done with Oliver!”
“I said it! But not so you could run straight to him!” Charlotte slammed the mug down so hard coffee sloshed onto the saucer. “God, how am I supposed to even look at the two of you now?!”
Emily sank back into the sofa, gripping her dark hair in her fists. She’d known this conversation would come, yet she still wasn’t prepared for the storm.
“Charlie, just listen…” she began softly. “We’re adults. You and Oliver split up a year ago. A whole year! And all this time, you swore you were free of him, that you’d never go back—”
“Yes, I said it! So what?” Charlotte paced the kitchen, flinging cupboard doors open and shut. “That doesn’t mean I’m ready to see him with my best friend!”
“Former best friend, by the look of it,” Emily muttered bitterly.
They’d met at university, first-year economics students. Back then, Charlotte had been the bright, bubbly girl with fiery red curls, while Emily was the serious bookworm in oversized glasses. On paper, they were nothing alike—yet they’d clicked instantly.
“Em, do you even know how to wear makeup?” Charlotte had asked after their first lecture, eyeing her new acquaintance.
“No. Why would I?”
“I’ll teach you! And you can explain maths to me, yeah? Numbers make my head spin.”
And so their friendship began. Charlotte transformed shy Emily into a stunner, while Emily hauled her friend through exams and deadlines. They were inseparable: studying together, double-dating, dreaming of the future.
“You know, Em,” Charlotte had once sighed as they lay sprawled on their narrow dorm beds, “I want to marry a real man. Someone strong, handsome—the kind who makes your knees weak just by looking at you.”
“I just want to love,” Emily had replied. “Someone who gets me without words. Who can sit in silence with me and still feel happy.”
Oliver arrived in their lives in third year. Tall, athletic, with an easy smile and confident charm. He’d transferred from another city and immediately caught every girl’s eye.
“That’s it, girls—I’m doomed!” Charlotte had gasped dramatically upon seeing him. “There he is, my prince!”
Emily had just smiled. Oliver was handsome, sure, but there was something too… polished about him. Like he always knew the right thing to say.
“Charlie, hi!” Oliver had called after a lecture. “Fancy showing me where to get decent food around here?”
“Absolutely!” Charlotte beamed. “Em, come with!”
“No, I’ve got to see a tutor,” Emily lied. “You go ahead.”
Charlotte fell hard. And Oliver? He seemed equally smitten by her outgoing spark. Within a month, they were dating—and Emily became the awkward third wheel, though they all pretended otherwise.
“Em, don’t sulk!” Charlotte would coax. “We’re like sisters! Oliver adores you too!”
“It’s fine,” Emily would deflect. “Just swamped with exams.”
But it wasn’t fine. Because Oliver *was* different. He was the only one who truly listened to Emily’s thoughts, who’d discuss books and films for hours. With him, she could talk about things she’d never shared with Charlotte.
“Emily, ever thought about academia?” he’d asked once over coffee. “You’ve got such an analytical mind.”
“Oh, shut up!” Charlotte laughed. “Em’s practical—she’s going into finance, making loads of cash!”
“Maybe,” Emily murmured.
Oliver studied her, and her heart raced. Was that understanding in his eyes? Interest? She couldn’t tell, but the look lingered.
“Charlie, could you—” Oliver started.
“God, girls, I totally forgot!” Charlotte cut in. “Dentist appointment! Em, walk Oliver back to halls, yeah?”
And she bolted before they could respond.
They walked through the autumn campus in silence, leaves crunching underfoot, the air sharp with rain.
“Em,” Oliver stopped suddenly. “You know you’re beautiful, right?”
“What?” She nearly tripped. “Don’t—”
“I mean it. Charlie’s vibrant, sure, but you… you’re special. Your eyes, how you *think*—”
Emily turned away. Her pulse roared in her ears.
“Oliver, stop. You’re with *Charlotte*.”
“I am,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t see others. Don’t see *you*.”
“Charlotte’s my *best friend*.”
“I know. So nothing happens. But if—”
“If doesn’t count,” Emily snapped. “Let’s go.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence. That evening, Charlotte returned from the dentist, cheek swollen but radiant.
“Em! Guess what? My tooth wasn’t even bad—the pain was *stress*! And guess why I’m stressed? Because I’m *madly* in love! Oliver was giving me *such* looks today…”
Emily’s stomach twisted. Those looks weren’t for Charlotte. But how could she say so?
Two years later, they married. A grand wedding, white lace, proud parents. Emily stood as maid of honour, smiling in every photo, avoiding the groom’s gaze.
“Em, thank you!” Charlotte sobbed in the loo, fixing her makeup. “You’re the *best* friend! I’d be lost without you!”
“Be happy,” Emily whispered, stroking her back—while dreading the lifetime of watching Oliver kiss her, hold her, love her.
Yet time numbed the ache. Emily buried herself in work, climbed the corporate ladder, moved across London. Dated men who never quite matched the ghost in her heart.
Charlotte and Oliver seemed content. They hosted dinners, celebrated holidays. Oliver remained cordial but distant, as if an invisible wall stood between them.
“Em, when are *you* settling down?” Charlotte would prod. “You’re nearly thirty!”
“Haven’t met my person,” Emily would say.
“You’re *too* picky! Oliver says his coworker’s divorced but nice—”
“No thanks.”
The cracks appeared in year five. Charlotte complained Oliver had grown cold, buried in books, barely speaking.
“He comes home and *ignores* me!” she fumed. “Like I’m a *wall*!”
“Maybe he’s tired,” Emily offered carefully.
“Tired?!” Charlotte scoffed. “On *weekends*? He’d rather read than talk to *me*!”
Emily stayed quiet. Oliver had always been thoughtful, reflective. Charlotte thrived on gossip, shopping, crowds.
“Em, could you *talk* to him?” Charlotte begged suddenly. “You’re clever—make him *listen*!”
“Why me?” Emily panicked.
“*Please*! You’re my *best friend*!”
The café reunion felt surreal. Oliver arrived weary, strands of grey at his temples.
“Emily,” he said flatly. “I know why you’re here.”
“You do?”
“Charlotte sent you. She thinks I’ve changed.”
“Have you?”
He spun his coffee cup. “Know the worst part of marriage? Realising you love the *idea* of someone, not *them*.”
“Oliver—”
“Ten years, Em. Ten years pretending. Charlotte loves who I *pretended* to be. But I… I fell for *you*. Back at uni. Never stopped.”
Emily’s breath caught. She’d waited a lifetime for those words—yet now, they only hurt.
“Too late,” she whispered.
“I know. But I can’t lie anymore. I’m suffocating.”
They sat in silence, a chasm of lost time between them.
“What do you want from me?” Emily asked.
“Nothing. Just needed you to know. To apologise for stealing ten years.”
“You didn’t steal them. I chose silence too.”
“Then we both chose wrong.”
Six months later, Charlotte filed for divorce. Oliver was seeing a colleague—a sharp-eyed journalist with a bob.
“Ten *years*, Em!” Charlotte sobbed over the phone. “And he runs off with some *nerd*?!”
“Breathe, Charlie—”
“How? Everyone thought we were *perfect*!”
Emily listened, numb. Charlotte mourned a man who’d never truly been hers. Oliver sought love elsewhere, too cowardly to fight for the one he’d wanted. And she? Alone, aching with unsaid words.
A year passed. Charlotte bounced back—new haircut, language classes, travel plans. Oliver remarried. Emily remained solitary, meeting Charlotte for occasional coffees.
“Em,” Charlotte mused one day, “divorce isn’t the end. I’ve gotAnd as Emily stepped into the autumn light, Oliver’s hand warm in hers, she finally understood that sometimes love arrives not with a fanfare, but with the quiet relief of a truth long unspoken.
