**Couldnt Learn to Love**
“Girls, come on, which one of you is Lily?” The woman studied usme and my mate, Emmawith a knowing smirk.
“Im Lily. Why?” I frowned, confused.
“Letter for you, then. From Oliver,” she said, pulling a crumpled envelope from her cardigan pocket and handing it over.
“Oliver? Where is he?”
“Transferred to a care home for adults. Waited for you, Lily, like you were rain after drought. Nearly wore his eyes out staring. Gave me this to check for mistakesdidnt want to embarrass himself. Anyway, Id best be off. Lunch soon. Im a carer here.” She gave me a lookhalf reproach, half pitythen hurried away.
…It had started months earlier. Emma and I, sixteen and restless, had wandered onto the grounds of some unfamiliar building during summer break. Wed plonked ourselves on a bench, giggling over nothing, when two lads approached.
“Alright, girls? Bored? Fancy a chat?” The taller one stuck out his hand. “Oliver.”
“Lily,” I said. “This is Emma. And your quiet friend?”
“Henry,” the other mumbled.
They seemed oddold-fashioned, almost stern. Oliver eyed our outfits critically. “Why dyou wear skirts that short? And Emma, that tops a bit… revealing.”
Emma snorted. “Lads, try not to stare too hard. Wouldnt want your eyes crossing permanently.”
“Hard not to look. Were blokes, arent we? You smoke as well, then?” Oliver pressed.
“Course. Just not properly,” I teased.
Only then did we notice their legsOliver shuffled awkwardly; Henry had a pronounced limp.
“You here for treatment?” I guessed.
“Yeah. Motorbike crash,” Oliver said smoothly. “Henry messed up a dive off a cliff.”
We believed them. No clue then that theyd been disabled since childhood, destined for life in that home. To them, we were a taste of the outsideof freedom. Every resident had a made-up story: a rugby injury, a botched surgery, anything but the truth.
But Oliver and Henry were sharp, well-read, wiser than their years. Soon, Emma and I visited weeklypartly out of pity, partly because they fascinated us. It became routine. Oliver picked flowers from the garden for me; Henry folded intricate origami for Emma, blushing as he handed it over. Wed sit four to a bench, Henry angled toward Emma, her cheeks pink under his quiet attention.
Summer faded into a soggy autumn. School swallowed us whole. By exams and prom, wed forgotten them entirely.
…Until, months later, on a whim, we returned. Sat on that same bench, waiting. No Oliver with daisies, no Henry with paper cranes. Just that carer, thrusting a letter at me.
*”Dearest Lily, You were my sunlight. I loved you from the first minute. Those afternoons were everything. Six months Ive watched that gate, hoping. You forgot me. Our paths wont cross again, but thank youyou showed me real love. I remember your laugh, your voice, your hands. It aches without you. Just one more glimpse… but theres no air left here. Henry and I turned eighteen. Theyre moving us come spring. Doubt well meet again. My hearts in tatters. Maybe one day Ill heal. Goodbye, darling.”*
Signed, *”Always yours, Oliver.”* A dried forget-me-not fluttered out.
Guilt hit like a punch. That saying echoed*were responsible for those weve tamed.* Id had no idea. To me, hed just been interesting, someone to teasenever dreaming my idle flirting stoked a fire I couldnt put out.
…Years passed. The letter yellowed; the flower crumbled. But I remember those afternoonshis dry wit, Henrys shy smiles.
Theres an epilogue: Emma fell for Henry, moved by his storyabandoned by parents for his “defect,” one leg shorter from birth. She trained as a teacher, works at a care home now. Married Henry. Two grown sons.
Oliver? According to Henry, he stayed alone. At forty, his mum finally visited, saw him, wept, took him back to her village in Cornwall. After that… no one knows.
Funny, the paths we take. Some loves ignite; others just… smoulder out.
