**Thursday, 10th October**
While packing old photographs today, I found one from our graduation ball. Forty years ago, Michael Davies stood beside me, his arm draped over my shoulder like he feared I’d vanish if he held too tight. We’re both smiling in that picture, but I’d trembled when he’d approached me that evening.
“Emily, might we take one together?” he’d asked, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed on his shoes. “Just to remember.”
I’d nodded silently, my heart thrashing loud enough, I thought, to echo through the hall. All through sixth form, he’d walked me home, carried my books, tutored me in maths. And I’d pretended not to notice—pretended it meant nothing.
Now, clearing things after my husband Victor’s passing, I see how much I’d let slip away. Victor was a decent man, a devoted father to our two children. But my heart always kept room for that bashful boy.
My daughter Lucy peered into the bedroom. “Mum, need help?”
“Just sorting photos. Look how young I was.”
Lucy studied the image. “Who’s this beside you? Not Dad…”
“A classmate,” I said curtly.
“Handsome. And gazing at you so… adoringly.” She grinned. “Was he a sweetheart?”
I turned toward the window. Outside, October rain speckled the glass, glazing the amber maple leaves.
“No romance. Just friends.”
Then, weakly defensive: “He went to college in Leeds; I attended uni in London.”
Lucy shrugged and left me alone with the ghosts.
After graduation, we met only a handful of times. He’d visit my home, and we’d sip tea in the kitchen. My mother, Margaret, plainly favoured him. “Good lad,” she’d say. “Hardworking. Sincere. He looks at you like you’re St. Joan.”
“Don’t fuss, Mum. We’re friends.”
“Friends,” she’d sigh. “At your age, I was planning my wedding.”
His last visit was that August. I was revising for med school entrance exams—my room buried under biology notes and chemistry texts.
“Am I interrupting?” he’d asked from the doorway.
“Come in,” I murmured, not glancing up.
He sat facing me, quiet a long while. Then: “Em… let’s marry.”
My heart stalled. I met his gaze—he sat rigid, hands clasped on his knees, each word costing him.
“I’m serious,” he pressed. “I’ve… loved you since Year Seven. Only you. You’ll finish uni; I’ll work, save for a flat. We’ll wait, then start a family.”
I couldn’t speak. Something boiled in my chest—*Yes!*—but fear pinned me down. Fear of seeming rash? Of delaying my studies? Or terror at the weight of such devotion?
“Michael, I—”
“Don’t answer yet. Think. I’ll wait.”
A week later, I left for London. Never replied. When I returned for break, he was courting Sarah Thompson, my old classmate.
I exhaled, setting down the photo. Decades on, it still felt raw. Sarah flaunting her engagement ring… Michael nodding awkwardly when we passed on the high street… my brittle congratulations.
At uni, I met Victor. Older, charming, self-assured. He sent flowers, took me to West End shows. We married in my third year—a lavish wedding, everyone envious.
*”Mum, did you love Dad?”* Lucy asked me once, grown.
*”Of course.”*
True, in its way. Not that fierce, trembling love I’d felt for Michael, but steady, familial. Victor was honourable—a good provider and father. I worked as a GP, raised our children, kept house. An ordinary life.
Sometimes I’d see Michael in town. He’d aged—wrinkles, grey hair—but his eyes stayed gentle, melancholy. We’d exchange pleasantries about weather or children. I knew he and Sarah had three youngsters, that he was a factory foreman, that they lived in a maisonette on the fringe of Reading.
Our last meeting was at the hospital. Victor was recovering from heart failure, and Michael was in the next ward. Same troubles. We collided in the corridor.
“Emily? What brings you here?”
“My husband’s ill. You?”
“Oh, a trifle,” he waved. “Doctors say stress, overwork…”
We stood mute, fumbling for words. Then, abruptly:
“D’you remember… when I proposed? At your desk?”
I nodded. Couldn’t forget.
The worn photograph remained there, its edge catching the fading autumn light, and in his youthful gaze seemed to linger not just the enduring love he’d carried all his life, but a silent, unanswered question that echoed within the still air of the empty room.
