The tube station exit was jammed with people, everyone hesitating under the relentless downpour outside. Those blessed with umbrellas fumbled in their bags, slowing the flow, while the unprepared lingered under the shelter, unwilling to brave the rain. But the impatient crowd behind shoved them forward anyway, right into the storm.
“Grab your umbrella,” snapped Nigel near the exit.
“I don’t have one,” mumbled Beatrice, helpless against the tide of bodies pushing her out.
“I *told* you it would rain this morning,” Nigel huffed, already drenched and glaring back at the station doors.
“I was running late, got distracted… You could’ve brought one yourself. Besides, your umbrella’s huge—we could’ve shared,” Beatrice shot back.
“Fine, we’re not made of sugar. Won’t melt.” Nigel marched off, Beatrice struggling to keep up.
“That’s exactly why I didn’t bring mine. Dragged yours around all day yesterday, and not a drop. Yours folds up—why even take it out of your bag?” Nigel grumbled as they hurried along.
“It was drying…”
They bickered over the drumming rain, voices rising.
“You always have an excuse for yourself, but somehow I’m always the one at fault,” Beatrice snapped, exhausted.
“I’m not blaming you, I just said—”
“You said it in *that* tone. Again. Couldn’t you just stay quiet? I’m sick of your nitpicking. You turn every little thing into a catastrophe.”
“You call *this* a little thing?” Nigel didn’t turn around. “All I said was—”
“Oh, don’t start. I’ve had enough,” she cut him off, breathless from the pace.
Nigel muttered something, but she ignored him, and soon he fell silent too. Beatrice knew she’d been careless—but this rain! Her clothes clung, hair dripping. When had things gotten so sour between them? Petty squabbles, endless nitpicking. Or had it always been this way? Maybe she’d just been better at smoothing things over before.
Then she saw him. A man walking toward them, no umbrella, but strolling like he *enjoyed* the rain, hands in his jeans pockets. Her heart raced before her mind caught up. *Daniel.*
She couldn’t look away. He stared back—then, as they passed, averted his eyes. What did that mean? It *was* him, wasn’t it? But he’d walked right by. No greeting. Maybe she’d been wrong? Her breath hitched—she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it. Tears welled, but the rain masked them.
“You know him? Why was he staring?” Nigel leaned in, trying to read her face.
“No. Must’ve mistaken him for someone.” *But why pretend not to know me?*
“You’re lying. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
*I did,* she thought. Aloud: “He just… reminded me of an old uni mate. You saw—he didn’t even say hello.” She forced calm. “What, are you jealous?” A weak attempt at levity.
“You’re upset,” Nigel pressed.
“Stop interrogating me. I. Don’t. Know. Him!” she burst out.
*He’s right. A ghost. One I tried so hard to forget. But if he won’t acknowledge me, fine. He betrayed me first.*
“Admit it, there’s history. Why else overreact?” Nigel feigned indifference.
“What do you *want* from me? Enough!”
Finally, they reached their flat.
“Dibs on the shower,” Beatrice said the second they stepped inside, darting to the bathroom. Nigel’s retort was drowned out by the water. She studied herself in the mirror. *What a sight. No wonder he pretended not to know me.* Stripping off soggy clothes, she noted her figure—still slim, no wrinkles, lashes thick without mascara. *Not bad for a drowned rat.*
Then her mind wandered back.
***
Beatrice had elbowed through the crowd at the freshers’ noticeboard, barely seeing past towering blokes.
“Let me *through*!”
“Here,” a voice said. A guy stepped aside.
She found her name, double-checking. No mistake. As she wriggled free, the same voice spoke.
“Congrats.”
She turned. A stranger—tall, grinning.
“Thanks. You too?”
“Yep. Guess we’re coursemates.”
“Brilliant.”
They’d bumped into each other all term—lectures, the canteen. Daniel always smiled but kept his distance. Just “Hi. How’s it going? See ya.”
Then, before exams, a storm rolled in. Beatrice hesitated outside the uni building.
“Blimey,” Daniel said, appearing beside her.
“Got an umbrella?”
“Nah. We’ll make it.”
They didn’t. Three hundred yards in, the sky opened.
“Run!” He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward his place. By the time they burst into his building, they were soaked.
“Anyone home?” she panted as they climbed the stairs.
“Mum,” he said, unlocking the door—then laughed at her panic. “Kidding. She’s at work.”
He lent her a T-shirt (swamping her) and made tea. They talked for hours. His dad had died three years ago; the bookshelves were his. Then they kissed—messy, breathless.
“You smell like rain,” he murmured.
“I should go…”
“Clothes are still wet.”
But she left, though every part of her wanted to stay.
After exams, they spent every day of July together. Then, in August, he dropped the bomb: “Mum and I are going to Scotland. Three weeks. Family trip.”
“*Three weeks?*”
“I’ll be back before you know it. Calls every day, promise.”
For two weeks, he did. Then—silence. His number dead. By term start, he still hadn’t returned. A mate from his class said his mum had requested a leave—Daniel had been in an accident.
“He’ll pull through. At least he’s alive.”
She went to his flat. His mum answered, cold. “He’s… not well. Might never walk again. He asked you to move on. Don’t wait for him.”
Beatrice was furious. *How dare he decide for me?* If he’d loved her, he’d have fought. She buried the hurt, married Nigel by final year.
***
“Beatrice, you asleep in there?” Nigel’s knock startled her.
“Almost done.”
That night, she lay awake, replaying the encounter. Had she imagined it? He hadn’t limped. But *he’d* recognized *her*—so why walk past?
“Still packing for Cornwall?” Nigel asked at breakfast. “Don’t leave it till the last minute, as usual.”
“I’ll manage.”
She’d forgotten. But first—she *had* to see Daniel. Next day, she left work early, heart pounding as she reached his building.
The door opened before she could knock. He kissed her before she spoke. All anger dissolved. She barely registered how they ended up on his sofa.
“Knew you’d come. Missed you every day,” he murmured, tracing her face.
He told her everything—the crash, his cousin dying, the surgeries, the year abroad relearning to walk.
“I didn’t call because I didn’t know if I’d ever be *whole* again. Didn’t want to ruin your life.”
She couldn’t stay mad. Not when he was here, real. They talked for hours, until darkness fell.
“I have to go,” she whispered, dressing hastily.
“Stay.”
“Can’t.”
He called a cab, walked her down. From her doorstep, she didn’t hear it drive off.
Nigel was waiting, livid.
“Where were you? With *him*?”
“Let’s talk—”
“Talk?” He laughed, then struck her.
Pain exploded. She crumpled, arms shielding her head as blows rained down.
Meanwhile, Daniel lingered outside, watching her lit window. When the light stayed on too long, he buzzed random flats until someone let him in.
“Police. Domestic disturbance,” he bluffed into the intercom.
Upstairs, he pounded on her door. Nigel answered—shirt bloody. Daniel shoved past. Beatrice lay curled on the floor.
Nigel swung; Daniel dodged, twisted his arm behind his back.
“Listen closely,” Daniel hissed. “I won’t press charges—but I *will* document this. Try anything, you’re done.”
He carried Beatrice out, flagged the cabbie for help.
Broken jaw. Concussion. Days in hospital.
When discharged, rain drizzled again.
“No umbrella this time,” Beatrice sighed.
“Lucky rain,” Daniel said.
A year later, their son was born.
*Funny,* she’d once thought the worst pain was loving someone who didn
