Loving Heart
Oliver stood by the window, gazing at the sunlit courtyard below. The corner shop “Tesco” sat in the neighbouring block, and people cut through the yard to reach it, but Oliver paid them no mind. He was waiting for one person only—Eleanor.
For as long as he’d lived in this flat, he’d been in love with her. Eleanor was two years older and lived two floors down. There was nothing extraordinary about her—just an ordinary girl, one in a million. But to Oliver, she was everything. The heart wants what it wants, after all.
She had just finished her A-levels and was preparing for nursing school. Now he wouldn’t be able to walk behind her to school or catch glimpses of her between lessons. All he could do was keep watch by the window, hoping for a sight of her.
Eleanor never noticed him. To her, Oliver was just a boy, a neighbour. So he hid his feelings, afraid she’d push him away if she knew. He waited, counting the years until he’d finish school, until he could finally tell her. But the day he got his results and was preparing for university, Eleanor got married—rushed into it, really.
From his window, Oliver watched as a silver Mercedes decked in ribbons pulled up. A tall man in a navy suit stepped out, pacing impatiently by the car, glancing up at the second-floor windows. Then out came Eleanor in a cloud of lace and tulle, tripping down the steps and twisting her ankle straight into the groom’s arms. He scooped her into the car, inspecting her broken heel while her mum ran out with a pair of white trainers instead. Eleanor married in those. No time to fetch new shoes.
The whole estate buzzed about it, whispering it was a bad omen—that the marriage wouldn’t last.
After the wedding, Oliver spent two days face-down on his bed, refusing to move. His mum nearly called the doctor, convinced he was ill. On the third day, he returned to his post by the window. But Eleanor was gone. His mum said the newlyweds had left for Brighton the morning after. Oliver feared she’d moved out for good—until, two weeks later, a sun-kissed and radiant Eleanor reappeared in the courtyard. His heart nearly leapt from his chest.
Her mum had gone to stay with her eldest son, who’d just had a baby, leaving the young couple to settle into married life. Time passed, and against all predictions, Eleanor and her husband seemed happy. At least until, six months later, they divorced.
Oliver’s mum broke the news over supper. The omen had come true. Rumour had it the husband’s ex-wife had turned up—they had a young son together. He’d divorced in a fit of anger, married Eleanor in haste, then realised his mistake. The ex-wife had intervened, laying it all out for Eleanor.
*”He loves our boy. And truth be told, I forgave him long ago. Let him go. You’ll find happiness elsewhere.”*
And Eleanor did let go. Oliver thought he could hear her crying through the walls, though that was impossible. He waited three days by the window, but she never stepped outside. What if she’d done something terrible? His stomach turned to ice at the thought, and he bolted to her door.
She answered, red-eyed and hollow, but there was a flicker of hope in her swollen gaze. Seeing him, she crumpled onto the sofa, face buried in a cushion. Oliver hesitated, then crept inside. The sight of her sobbing shattered him. He crouched beside her, gently rubbing her back until her shuddering breaths steadied.
When she turned her tear-streaked face to him, Oliver loved her more than ever—dishevelled, vulnerable, utterly real.
*”Don’t cry,”* he murmured. *”Wait for me. Once I finish uni, I’ll marry you.”*
He started university. Sometimes he’d pass Eleanor in the street, trudging home from work or the shops, eyes downcast. His chest ached with pity and longing. He’d carry her groceries, crack jokes, tell stories. At her door, she’d take the bags and say goodbye, never inviting him in.
Of course, his mum knew. She hoped he’d snap out of it, fall for a girl his own age. Then came the next bit of gossip—Eleanor was seeing someone. A doctor, twice her age, married. His daughter was Eleanor’s age.
Who started these rumours? The man never visited, never walked her home. Oliver burned with jealousy. The only comfort was that she’d never marry a married man.
Winter draped the estate in snow, fairy lights twinkling in every window. Then, one evening, Eleanor came to him. His mum was out.
*”Do you have an onion?”* she asked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. *”Not a single one left, and no time to run to Sainsbury’s. Can I have one?”*
He hid his disappointment, fetched the onion. She turned it in her hands, then met his gaze. *”Actually… could I have one more? I’ll replace them.”*
He gave her 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. Didn’t she feel how much he loved her? He glued himself to the window, tracking every familiar silhouette in the snow. Then a stranger arrived—a man in a fur hat and a long coat, stepping out of a red Audi. Oliver’s stomach twisted.
He paced like a caged animal, then returned to the window. The car was dusted with snow. He toyed with the idea of throwing something to set off the alarm, to ruin their evening. But before he could act, the man left.
Relief flooded him. The visit had been too short—nothing had happened. He couldn’t wait any longer. He marched downstairs and rang her bell.
Eleanor answered, eyes dull, voice flat. *”What do you want? More onions?”*
Was she mocking him?
*”Are you alone? Can I come in?”*
She stepped aside. The kitchen table was set for two, a bottle of wine open but untouched. Eleanor blew out the candle.
*”Let’s drink,”* she said, reaching for the bottle.
He poured. The wine was rich, sweet. By the second glass, his head swam with courage.
*”Your doctor left quickly. Did you break things off?”*
*”He came to say he won’t leave his wife.”* She looked at him. *”Why does no one love me? I’m not hideous.”*
*”I love you,”* Oliver blurted. *”I’ve loved you since Year 5.”*
And it all spilled out—how he’d watched her from his window, how he’d waited, how he’d ached when she married. How he’d rejoiced when she divorced. How he’d nearly died seeing that man arrive.
Eleanor listened, then took his hand and led him to the bedroom. At the edge of the bed, she began unbuttoning her blouse. Oliver froze. The lace bra beneath was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, cupping her breasts in perfect white. He’d never been stirred by his mum’s plain, practical things drying in the bathroom. But this—this burned him alive.
When she reached for her skirt zip, he stopped her.
*”Don’t.”* His throat was dry, limbs heavy.
*”Don’t do this,”* he repeated, draping her blouse over her shoulders.
She sat, tears falling onto the fabric of her skirt. Oliver wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans but couldn’t bring himself to embrace her. Then she leaned into him and cried.
*”You’re the best,”* he whispered. *”I promised my mum I wouldn’t marry until after uni. She raised me alone—I can’t hurt her. But will you marry me?”*
Eleanor stopped crying. Looked at him. His heart plummeted—she’d laugh now, and he’d die of shame.
Instead, she smiled. *”Yes.”*
He couldn’t believe it. *”I’ll work, we’ll—”*
The doorbell rang. They startled.
Eleanor answered. His mum stormed in, lips thin, eyes blazing.
*”I didn’t believe it… Come home. Now.”* She spun on her heel, ignoring Eleanor. Oliver trailed after her.
*”Why her?”* his mum hissed once inside. *”There are plenty of nice girls your age.”*
*”I love her. I’m marrying her after uni. Nothing’s happened yet. But if you interfere, I’ll move in with her tonight.”*
His mum deflated, blinking rapidly. Oliver knew he’d won.
From then on, he visited often, took her to the cinema. Sometimes she’d laugh at his student stories. He graduated, landed a job at a reputable firm.
One day, he arrived at her door with red roses. Her mum answered, the flat smelling of fresh bakingYears later, as Oliver pushed their toddler on the swing while Eleanor watched from the window, sunlight spilling through the curtains, he realized that love—true love—was never about grand gestures, but the quiet, unwavering promise of a shared life.
