It’s All Because of You…
The July heat was unbearable, the air thick and heavy with humidity and dust. Emily gasped for breath, her nostrils flaring with each inhale. Her heart pounded sluggishly in her chest, begging for rest, for cool relief.
Her mother-in-law’s birthday was Saturday, and she and her husband would visit their countryside cottage. Emily missed her son terribly, but the countryside air was better for him than the choking smog of the city. She imagined sitting beneath the sprawling branches of an oak, sipping spring water, breathing clean air… But Saturday was still days away, and the heat mocked her, refusing to relent. You longed for summer? You dreamed of sunshine? Here it is—enjoy, and don’t you dare complain.
The rush-hour buses were packed with sticky bodies, the cramped space humming like a bomb waiting to detonate—one spark, and the tension would explode. Walking was just as unbearable, but at least she could duck into shops, stealing moments under air-conditioning, gathering strength for the next push toward home.
A shopping centre loomed ahead, and Emily quickened her pace, desperate for the chill of conditioned air. She stepped inside, gulping down the coolness, her heart slowing in gratitude.
She drifted between stalls, browsing half-heartedly for a gift. Her mother-in-law always insisted she didn’t need anything—just their company was enough—but Emily knew better. She’d seen the pleased glint in the older woman’s eyes whenever she brought something unexpected.
Finding nothing, she turned toward the exit when a small kiosk caught her eye—jewellery, trinkets, odd little treasures scattered across the counter. Emily lingered, delaying her return to the baking streets. Then she saw it—a vase.
Long-necked, mosaic-like, strange and unlike anything she’d seen.
“May I?” she asked the young girl behind the counter.
It was heavier than expected, made of enamel-coated metal, its surface threaded with an uneven lattice of dull, dusty colours. It looked antique, out of place among the gaudy clutter on display.
“How much?”
The price made her blink.
“Handmade. There’s nothing else like it,” the girl said proudly.
“Is it part of a collection?”
“Made by one bloke. Disabled. Lovely stuff, but pricey—hardly anyone buys it.”
“I’ll take it,” Emily heard herself say, seized by impulse. She imagined a single rose in it—elegant, striking. Her mother-in-law would love it.
“Could you wrap it nicely?”
The girl rummaged beneath the counter.
As she waited, Emily idly examined the display. Then a woman appeared—pale, exhausted, like so many in the heat.
“Hello, Sarah. Someone bought the vase, then?”
The girl, Sarah, nodded, glancing at Emily. The woman didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ll send the money after my shift,” Sarah muttered.
“Right. I’ll bring more stock tomorrow.” The woman turned to leave.
Emily frowned. She knew her—not just in passing, but properly. Something tugged at her memory.
*Julia.* That was Julia!
“Will this do?” Sarah presented the vase, now wrapped in red ribbon.
Emily barely registered the extra cost, swiping her card, snatching the parcel, and hurrying after the woman.
Julia walked slowly, head down, lost in thought.
“Julia!”
She turned, her expression blank.
“You don’t recognise me? It’s Emily.”
Julia’s lips twitched. “I recognised you. You haven’t changed. Unlike me.” She nodded at the parcel. “Bought the vase?”
“Yes. It’s beautiful. For my mother-in-law’s birthday. Sarah said some disabled man makes them.”
“My husband.”
They walked side by side, Emily matching Julia’s slow pace.
“I thought it was an antique. Is your husband an artist?”
“Among other things. But don’t pretend ignorance. Where have you been—living under a rock? You always were in your own world. It’s Alex who makes them.”
“Alex? But Sarah said—”
“He *is* disabled. After the accident, he never walked again. This is how he scrapes by. Let him have that, at least.” She sighed. “Fancy a cuppa? I don’t want to go back outside yet.”
They sat near the entrance, grabbing the last free table.
“Two teas and ice cream, please,” Julia said flatly.
The waitress left, and Julia’s gaze drifted past Emily.
“Funny. I’ve been thinking about you lately. Then I see you buying Alex’s vase.”
“You knew it was me? Why didn’t you say something?”
Julia shrugged. “What’s there to say? My life’s nothing to brag about. But you—still spending money on pretty things, eh? Husband doing well?”
“It’s not *just* a pretty thing. It’s art.”
“Art.” Julia scoffed. “Our flat’s a bloody workshop now. He’s always carving, painting—never stops. But at least he’s not drinking. Some bloke in hospital taught him, after the accident. Took months before he got decent. Now we manage.”
Emily squeezed Julia’s hand. “I’m sorry. It must be so hard.”
“Hard?” Julia wrenched her hand free. “I’m his bloody nurse, maid, *everything*. And it’s all because of you.”
Julia’s glare was sharp, sudden.
“What?”
“You really don’t know, do you? Still playing the innocent. Girls threw themselves at Alex, but *you* were the one he wanted.”
Her voice cracked.
“I hated you. Thought—*she’s nothing special, how’d she land him?* So I made sure you wouldn’t. Remember that weekend you went home? He came to the dorm. I got him drunk, put him in my bed. Then I got pregnant.”
Her lips twisted.
“Bad luck—baby was stillborn.”
Emily sat frozen, the tea cooling untouched.
“I thought I’d won. But there’s no love, no kids. Just this. Punishment, eh?”
Julia exhaled, bitter.
“Sometimes I think—if he’d married *you*, maybe he’d still be whole. I’d have found some ordinary bloke, had babies, been happy. But no. Now he’s mine—broken, dependent. No risk of him straying.”
Emily tried to take her hand again. Julia jerked away.
“Don’t. I don’t want your pity.”
“Julia—my husband’s a doctor. Maybe we can—”
Julia stood abruptly, chair screeching. “Live your perfect life. Stay out of mine.”
She leaned in, smiling coldly.
“But come by, if you like. See what became of the man whose voice *made your heart race*. I’ll even let you have him, for old times’ sake. You’d make a great nurse.”
Then she was gone, leaving Emily numb.
She paid without tasting the tea, grabbing the vase, stumbling into the heat.
The memories came anyway—university days, cramped dorm rooms, a boy with a guitar…
—
*”Still studying? Come on! Alex is at Maggie’s—brought his guitar. He sings like an angel. Should be on stage, not studying chemistry.”*
Julia tugged off her robe, swapping it for a dress.
Emily hesitated.
*”Go on, change. You can’t go like that.”*
She pulled on jeans, a jumper, scraped her hair back. No makeup—her mother had raised her strictly. While others went clubbing, Emily buried herself in books.
When they entered Maggie’s room, Alex was singing, girls gazing at him like worshippers.
He paused, smirked at Emily.
*”Like it?”*
*”Did you write it?”*
Julia snorted. *”God, you’re clueless.”*
Alex grinned. *”Sharp, aren’t you? Try this one.”*
His next song was just for her.
Her heartbeat matched the melody, soaring, stumbling. She was lost.
And him? No man sang like that without feeling something.
Later, Julia flirted shamelessly, demanding a song *for her*.
*”Doesn’t work like that,”* Alex said. *”Poetry needs a spark.”*
Next day, he waited outside her lecture, took her for coffee. She could barely eat, terrified of saying something stupid.
Then he turned up at her dorm once—Julia was out.
*”Hungry?”* Emily asked.
*”Starving.”* He devoured the potatoes she fried, laughing when he realised. *”You’re smart, you cook—wife material. Where’d you come from?”*
*”Yorkshire,”* she mumbled.
Then Julia walked in.
Alex left—awkward, abrupt.
*”What was *that*?”* Julia hissed.
Emily flushed. *”He just dropped by.”*
*”Keep telling yourself that.”*
Next day, Alex waited for her after class. The whispers followed.
But then EmilyShe placed the vase on her shelf, empty, knowing some things—like the past—could never be filled.
