**Diary Entry – 12th March**
A flash… A deafening bang… Darkness… Then, slowly, the blackness began to fade. A voice cut through the haze:
“Dr. Emily Whitaker, this is the paramedic—something exploded in there.”
Pain shot through me as I felt a hand on my neck. I forced my eyelids open, just enough to see a pendant—a rectangular charm engraved with zodiac signs—swinging before me. A woman in a white coat leaned in.
“To surgery!” someone barked nearby.
Mum and Dad had just come home from work. Mum rushed straight to the kitchen, pausing only to peek into the living room where my son, Oliver, sat hunched over his homework. Dad, though, noticed the boy’s mood instantly.
“Ollie, what’s wrong?” Dad ruffled his hair.
“Nothing,” Oliver muttered, a typical nine-year-old’s grumble.
“Come on, out with it!”
“It’s nearly Mother’s Day,” Oliver sighed. “Miss Thompson kept us after class. Said we’ve got to get gifts for the girls.”
Dad chuckled. “And?”
“There’s equal boys and girls in class. She assigned who gives to who.” Oliver groaned. “I got stuck with the ugly one. Emma Hardwick.”
Dad kept his voice steady, treating him like a grown-up. “Every girl deserves a gift, Oliver. Even the ones you think aren’t pretty. How’d she assign them? Alphabetically?”
“Nah. By star signs.”
“Star signs?” Dad barely suppressed a laugh.
“Compatibility. Emma’s a Virgo. Virgos get on best with Tauruses. And I’m a Taurus.”
Dad grinned. “That’s brilliant! Who knows? Maybe you’ll fancy her when you’re older.”
Mum bustled in. “What’s all this?”
“Sarah, leave us,” Dad said firmly. “Man talk.”
When she’d gone, Oliver mumbled, “What do I even get her?”
“Something special.”
“Like what? You work at the factory.”
“Aye, in the plating department. I’ll sort it tomorrow.”
The next evening, Dad came home with a pendant—gold-plated, rectangular. One side bore Taurus and Virgo, the other finely engraved: *To Emma, Happy Mother’s Day! From Oliver.*
God, it was beautiful. Even more so when Mum tucked it into a crisp cellophane bag.
The day arrived. No lessons—just gifts. Miss Thompson beamed over hers. Then the boys lined up to present theirs. Chaos erupted as lads scrambled to their assigned girls. Oliver approached Emma, reciting Dad’s words:
“Emma, happy Mother’s Day. Maybe fate’ll pair Taurus and Virgo one day.”
He didn’t see her heart skip. Didn’t see her clutch the pendant like treasure.
Soon after, Emma’s family moved across town. She switched schools.
**Hospital – Present Day**
I blinked awake. Sterile white ceiling. Tubes. Bandages. My left arm twitched; the rest felt leaden.
“Where am I?” My voice was hoarse.
A bloke on crutches hobbled over. “Back with us, mate? Emergency surgery ward.”
“Am I… whole?”
“Seems so. Just wrapped up like a mummy.”
A nurse appeared. “How’re you feeling?”
“What happened?”
“You’ll live. Scars, though.” She handed me a phone. “Your mum’s called twice.”
“Oliver!” Mum sobbed through the receiver.
“I’m fine, just banged up.”
“They wouldn’t let me stay overnight—”
“Don’t fuss, Mum.”
My mate Rob visited later. “Bloody hell, mate. Oxygen tanks blew at the factory. We dragged you out just as another went off. Medals in it, they reckon.”
Days passed. The surgeon who’d stitched me—Dr. Whitaker—was due for rounds. When she entered, my breath caught. Young, sharp, glasses framing intelligent eyes. A pendant dangled from her neck. *That pendant.*
“Emma Hardwick?!”
She studied my bruised face. “Sorry, do I—?”
“I’m the Taurus.” I pointed.
Her lips trembled. “Oliver Graham? You remember me?”
“Course I do.” I touched her wrist as tears welled in her eyes.
She dabbed them away. “Never thought we’d meet like this.”
That night, I heard weeping in the corridor. Emma, slumped at the desk.
“A woman—hit by a car,” she choked out. “I tried everything. Two kids… husband’s with her now…”
I squeezed her shoulder. “We save some. Lose some. Part of the job.”
She looked up. “Men think I’m mad. Still live with my parents at twenty-seven.”
“Plenty of time yet.”
Weeks later, discharged, I stood in my childhood bedroom. Dad arched a brow as I grabbed my coat.
“Remember that pendant you made? Emma’s a surgeon now. Still wears it.”
Dad whistled. “Told you you’d fancy her.”
I grinned. “Off to prove you right.”
Twenty-seven isn’t too late to start a life with the right person.
