**A Loving Heart**
Tom stood by the window, gazing at the sunlit courtyard. In the neighbouring building stood a small Tesco, and people often cut through the yard to reach it. But Tom wasn’t interested in the crowd—he was waiting for one person alone: Emily.
For as long as he’d lived in this flat, he’d been in love with her. Emily was two years older, living two floors below. She wasn’t extraordinary—just a girl like any other. But to Tom, she was everything. The heart wants what it wants, after all, and his had chosen her without reason.
She had just finished her A-Levels and was preparing to enrol in nursing college. Now he wouldn’t be able to walk behind her to school or catch glimpses of her in the halls. His only option was to keep watch by the window, hoping for a sight of her.
Emily barely noticed him. To her, Tom was just a kid—a neighbour, nothing more. So he kept his feelings hidden, afraid she’d push him away if she knew. He waited, biding his time until he finished school, until he was old enough to confess. But just as he received his diploma and prepared for university, Emily rushed into marriage—quite literally.
From his window, Tom watched as a sleek black Mercedes, decorated with ribbons, pulled up outside. A tall man in a navy suit stepped out, pacing impatiently by the car, glancing up at the second-floor windows. Then, Emily burst out of the building in a cloud of white lace, tripping on the steps—only to be caught at the last second by her groom. He helped her into the car, then inspected her shoe, frowning. The heel had snapped.
Emily’s mum rushed out with a pair of white trainers. In those, she said her vows. There was no time to buy new shoes.
The whole neighbourhood gossiped. A bad omen, they said. The marriage wouldn’t last.
After the wedding, Tom spent two days lying face-down on his bed. His mum nearly called a doctor, convinced he was ill. On the third day, he resumed his post by the window. But Emily was gone. His mum said the newlyweds had left for Spain the day after the wedding. Tom dreaded the idea of her moving away—until two weeks later, when a tanned, glowing Emily reappeared in the courtyard. She was back! His heart nearly leapt from his chest.
Emily’s mum soon moved in with her eldest son, whose wife had just had a baby, leaving the young couple to settle into married life. Months passed, and against all predictions, they seemed happy.
Tom’s routine returned—watching Emily from his window, though now often with her husband beside her. Then, six months later, they divorced.
His mum broke the news over dinner. The omen had come true. Rumours spread—something about the husband’s ex-wife showing up. They had a young son. The separation had been impulsive. He’d met Emily in the chaos, married her, but never stopped seeing his boy. The ex-wife told Emily everything.
*”He loves his son. I’ve forgiven him. Let him go. You’ll find happiness elsewhere.”*
So Emily did. Tom imagined he could hear her crying through the walls. After three days without seeing her, fear gripped him—what if she’d hurt herself? His stomach lurched, and he bolted to her door.
She answered, red-eyed and dishevelled, but hopeful. At the sight of him, she crumpled onto the sofa, sobbing. He hesitated, then crouched beside her, gently rubbing her back until the tears slowed. When she turned to him, swollen-faced and vulnerable, he loved her more fiercely than ever—if that were possible.
*”Don’t cry. Just wait—after uni, I’ll marry you.”*
Tom started university. He’d see Emily sometimes, trudging home from work, eyes downcast. He’d carry her shopping, make her laugh with silly stories. She never invited him inside.
Then his mum delivered fresh gossip—Emily was seeing someone new. A doctor. Married. Twice her age. His daughter was Emily’s peer. Tom burned with jealousy, though he clung to one comfort: surely she wouldn’t marry a man still tied to another family.
Winter came, snow blanketing the courtyard, fairy lights twinkling in every window. Then, one evening, Emily knocked on his door. His mum was out.
*”Do you have an onion?”* she asked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
Disappointment curled in his gut, but he fetched one. She twisted it in her hands, then smiled. *”Maybe two? I’ll replace them.”*
He brought another. *”Expecting company?”* he dared to ask. She didn’t answer, just thanked him and left.
Resentment gnawed at him. Why couldn’t she see him? He wasn’t a boy anymore.
He returned to the window. He knew every neighbour by silhouette—Mr. Harris from flat 13, Mrs. Wilkins from downstairs. Then a stranger arrived: a man in a long wool coat and fur hat, heading for Emily’s door.
Tom paced like a caged animal, imagining them together—wine, dinner, then…
Before he could act, the man left. Heart pounding, Tom rushed downstairs.
Emily answered, eyes dull. *”What do you want? Onions or salt?”*
Mockery? *”Are you alone? Can I come in?”*
She let him pass. The table was set for two, wine opened but untouched. She blew out the centre candle.
*”Let’s drink,”* she said, reaching for the bottle.
Tom poured. The wine was rich, sweet. Liquid courage warmed his veins.
*”Your doctor left quickly. Trouble?”*
*”He won’t leave his wife,”* she whispered. *”Why doesn’t anyone love me?”*
*”I do,”* he blurted. *”Since I was fourteen—”* And it all spilled out: the watching, the waiting, the jealousy.
She listened, silent. Then she took his hand, led him to the sofa… and began unbuttoning her blouse.
He froze. The lace of her bra, the swell of her breasts—nothing had ever looked so beautiful. But as her fingers moved to her skirt, he caught her wrist.
*”Don’t—not like this.”*
She sagged, tears dripping onto the fabric. He draped her blouse over her shoulders, sat beside her. When she leaned into him, he ached to hold her—but didn’t.
*”You’re the best,”* he murmured. *”I promised Mum I wouldn’t marry until after uni. She raised me alone—I can’t disappoint her. But will you? Marry me?”*
Emily stopped crying. His stomach dropped—she’d laugh now, and he’d die of shame.
Instead, she smiled. *”Yes.”*
Joy detonated in his chest.
The doorbell rang. His mum stormed in, lips thin, eyes blazing. *”Home. Now.”*
Back in their flat, she hissed, *”Plenty of girls your age—why her?”*
*”I love her,”* he said firmly. *”I’ll marry her after graduation. But if you interfere, I’ll move in with her tonight.”*
She deflated. He’d won.
From then on, he whisked Emily to films, made her laugh on long walks home, listened to her hospital stories.
Years passed. He graduated, landed a job at a top firm. One evening, he arrived at her door with red roses. Her mum welcomed him warmly, bustling about the kitchen until Emily returned.
*”Remember my promise?”* Tom said, pulling out a ring. *”Marry me.”*
Emily opened the box, met his gaze. *”Yes.”*
The neighbours talked, of course. Some pitied him; others shrugged. But on the day they married, as he carried her over the threshold—careful of her heels, careful of any omens—Tom knew he was the luckiest man alive.
A year later, he pushed their daughter’s pram through the courtyard while Emily waved from the window, grinning.
Nothing had gone wrong.
