**The Bouquet**
Vera lay with her eyes closed, half-dozing. Across the narrow dorm room, Holly sat cross-legged on her bed, reading a textbook aloud. Vera’s phone suddenly blared a popular ringtone, shattering the quiet. Holly snapped her book shut and shot her friend a disapproving glare.
Vera sighed and answered. A moment later, she was upright on the bed. Then she flung the phone aside, jumped to her feet, and began darting between the wardrobe and her sports bag, shoving clothes inside.
“Where are you going? What’s happened?” Holly asked, alarmed.
“The neighbour just rang—Mum’s been rushed to hospital. A heart attack.” Vera zipped the bag shut and marched to the door where their coats hung and their boots cluttered the floor.
“You’ve got an exam tomorrow! The hospital will look after her. Go after you’ve sat it,” Holly said, standing as Vera yanked on her boots.
“Listen, Hol, explain everything to the dean’s office. I’ll sort it when I’m back—retakes, whatever. My bus leaves in forty minutes.” Vera was already fastening her coat.
“Call when you know how she is,” Holly called, but Vera had already bolted. The sharp clatter of heels faded down the corridor.
Holly sighed and turned back to the room. Then she spotted Vera’s phone charger still plugged in. She snatched it up and dashed after her, barefoot.
“Vera! Vera, wait!” she yelled, thundering downstairs.
The front door slammed. Holly vaulted the last few steps, shoved the door open, and nearly tumbled outside.
“Vera!”
The girl turned. Seeing the charger in Holly’s hand, she hurried back.
“Thanks.” Then she was off again.
“Miss Brightwell, what’s all this? One of you nearly breaks the door, the other charging outside barefoot—are you high?” The dorm matron, Mrs. Wilkins, glared from her desk.
“Sorry, Mrs. Wilkins. It’s Vera—her mum’s in hospital. I’m freezing, can I go?” Without waiting, Holly sprinted back upstairs.
“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Wilkins muttered, crossing herself. “God keep her safe.”
Back in the room, Holly brushed grit from her feet, tidied Vera’s mess, slipped on slippers, and filled the kettle. The exam loomed tomorrow—tea would warm her, then back to revising.
Dusk had settled when a hesitant knock came at the door.
“Who is it?” Holly called. No answer. She sighed, opened it.
“Hi.” Anton stood there, holding a small bouquet.
“Come in.” She waited until he stepped inside before adding, “Vera’s gone home.”
“But she’s got an exam tomorrow,” he frowned.
“I’ll sort it with the dean. She’ll retake it.” Holly’s gaze lingered on the flowers.
“These are for you,” Anton said, offering them.
“Thanks. Fancy a cuppa?” She took the bouquet to the windowsill, lifting a jar for water.
“I’ll get some. You get comfy.” She smiled and slipped out.
Anton only removed his shoes. Two steps brought him to Vera’s bed. He sat, trailing fingers over the cheap blanket like a caress.
Holly returned, arranged the flowers, stepped back to admire them.
“Lovely. What are they?”
“Sweet peas,” Anton said. “I should go.” He stood.
“Did you and Vera have plans?” Holly blurted, suddenly desperate for him to stay.
“Yeah. I got concert tickets.”
“Really? Take me, then. No point wasting them.”
Anton hesitated.
“You’ve got an exam.”
“So?” Holly waved it off. “I’ve crammed all day—need a break.”
He wavered. Vera was gone. They’d only just started dating—it wasn’t serious. Going with her flatmate wasn’t betrayal, was it?
“Alright,” he said.
“Yes!” Holly clapped, bouncing. “Wait outside—let me get ready.”
Five minutes later, she emerged, mascara and lipstick fresh, hair pinned up. How had she managed so fast?
“Come on, we’ll miss it,” Anton urged.
At the concert, Holly danced, arms aloft, screaming lyrics in euphoric unison with the crowd. She kept glancing at Anton. Soon he matched her energy, shouting along.
Afterwards, walking back, they rehashed the night.
“That bit was my favourite,” Holly hummed a riff.
“Yeah! And when they—” Anton echoed another tune, mangling the words.
They reached the dorm. Holly jiggled the locked door.
“Mrs. Wilkins is on. She’ll never open up. What now?”
Anton steered her along the building. Round the corner, two girls clambered through a ground-floor window.
“Quick—after them!” He boosted Holly up. Hands yanked her inside.
A shrill whistle cut the air.
“Hurry!” Holly hissed.
Anton hauled himself in. The window snapped shut. The whistle faded. Giggles erupted around them.
“Thanks. We’re off,” Anton said, nudging Holly towards the door.
Upstairs, safe in her room, they collapsed into laughter.
“I should go,” Anton said eventually.
Still dark—they hadn’t bothered with the light.
“Stay. I like you. A lot,” Holly whispered, pressing close, tilting her face up.
He hesitated—then bent to meet her…
Vera returned to a near-empty dorm at term’s end. Holly and Anton were still away, like most students. She arranged her missed exam, presented the hospital note. The crisis had passed, though her mum stayed under observation.
She scraped through the retake. Lectures resumed, but Holly never came back, never answered calls. The dean’s office said she’d taken leave—medical reasons.
Soon a new girl moved in. Studies, Anton… No time to dwell on Holly’s absence. Soon, everyone forgot. Anton never mentioned the concert, or what followed. It felt like a dream.
**Twenty-One Years Later**
“Mum, Dad, I’m home!” A girl—Anton’s mirror image—burst in.
“How’s uni?” He lowered his paper.
“Let her change first,” Vera called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
At the table, their daughter blurted, “I met this girl today—everyone says we’re identical!”
“Coincidence,” Vera said. “They say everyone has a double. More potatoes?”
“Dad, you’ve spaced out.”
Anton set down his fork. “Did you talk to her?”
“Course! She’s a finalist. Get this—her name’s Claire Sunshine.”
Vera’s gaze sharpened on Anton. “My old roommate was Claire Brightwell. Remember?”
“Brightwell! That’s it!” their daughter exclaimed.
“I only had eyes for you,” Anton said hastily, sipping tea—then choking. “I’ve burned my tongue—how many times must I say not to scald it?”
Later, feigning sleep on the sofa, Anton’s mind raced. *A coincidence? But it happened. Why did she leave? Fool. Why didn’t I—*
“Anton, you’ll ruin your sleep.” Vera’s hand brushed his forehead. “You’re not ill?”
He skipped work next morning, drove to the dorm.
“Does Claire Brightwell live here?” he asked the matron—a different woman, yet eerily like Mrs. Wilkins.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m her uncle. Just passing—”
Three girls clattered downstairs.
“Brightwell! Visitor,” the matron called.
Claire eyed him warily. “Do I know you?”
“Let’s talk outside.”
“You’re *not* her uncle?” the matron warned.
“No police,” Anton said. “Is your mother Holly Brightwell? Were you born September 25th?”
Claire froze. “Who *are* you?”
“I didn’t know about you,” he admitted later, in his car. “We were together just once. Your mum never told me.”
“She died giving birth. Gran said it was Rh incompatibility. She made Mum keep me—then blamed herself.”
Anton handed her his card. “If you ever need anything—”
“And your wife?” Claire smirked.
“I’ll tell her. I think she already knows.”
That evening, Vera listened silently as Anton confessed.
“You kept this hidden *twenty years*? Why now?”
“Our daughter met her. You’d have found out. I wanted it from me.”
Vera’s voice shook. “What then? Would you have married *her*?”
“No. But I wouldn’t have abandoned her.”
Later, their daughter took the news cheerfully. “A sister? Brilliant! Will she live with us?”
Claire visited weeks later. Vera stayed polite but distant. The girls bonded instantly. After graduation, Claire moved near them, Anton helping after her gran’s death.
They never spoke of the past againAs the years passed, the unspoken past quietly wove itself into the fabric of their lives, a silent thread binding them all together.
