Just Friends
The ringing phone interrupted Emily’s quiet dinner. She rarely cooked for herself. Most mornings, she settled for a cup of coffee, grabbed lunch at a café near work, and in the evenings, she sipped tea with biscuits or, if she was particularly hungry, fried herself an egg. On weekends, she visited her parents. Her mother always insisted on sending her back with containers of food—refusing was as good as declaring war.
Emily set down her glass of milk just as the cheerful, insistent ringtone of her phone blared from the bedroom. She made a mental note to change it—something gentler. The tune grated on her nerves, drilling into her skull. Sighing, she abandoned her drink and hurried to answer. The number was unfamiliar, but if someone was calling this persistently, it must be important. She tapped the screen.
“Hello? I was beginning to think you wouldn’t pick up,” came a painfully familiar voice. Years had passed, yet she’d recognised it instantly. *Hang up,* her mind hissed.
“Please don’t. I need to talk to you,” her old friend pleaded, as though reading her thoughts.
Emily waited in silence.
“I’ve got no one else to turn to. Only you can help. Give me your address—I’ll come over. It’s urgent.”
Something was wrong. Lily wouldn’t call out of the blue. Once, they’d been inseparable—best friends in another lifetime.
“Fine. I’ll text it,” Emily said, ending the call.
Her heart thudded uneasily. Why now? Her fingers trembled as she typed the address. Lily’s reply was immediate: *On my way.*
Emily returned to the kitchen, washed her glass, and sat at the table.
She’d spent years purging every thought of her old friend. Convinced herself she’d forgiven, forgotten, moved on. But this one call had unleashed a flood of memories, crashing over her like an avalanche.
***
Her mother adored the film *The School Waltz.* Though the era had long passed, the film remained timeless. So when Emily was born, she was named after its heroine. People always mentioned the film when they heard her name.
Unlike the actress who played the role, Emily wasn’t a beauty. Her hair was a pale blonde, like her lashes, her eyes small and grey. She’d always been self-conscious about her figure—her modest chest a sore point. “It’ll grow,” her mother had assured her.
Lily, though—Lily had curves. She carried herself with confidence, her presence impossible to ignore. Boys’ gazes would stick to her like glue.
Every summer, Emily was sent to her grandmother’s cottage in the countryside. What had once been a quiet village was now a hub of holiday homes. Only four houses remained occupied year-round, Emily’s grandmother’s among them. Next door lived old Mrs. Norris, whose grandson visited every summer. He and Emily spent those long, golden months together.
Then, one year, everything changed. She saw him not as the scruffy boy from childhood, but a striking young man, and suddenly, she hesitated before rushing to greet him as she always had. But Oliver welcomed her warmly, inviting her to the river as if nothing were different.
They chatted the whole way there, yet at the water’s edge, she hesitated to take off her dress. She waited until he’d waded in, then turned away, quickly undressed, and plunged in before he could glimpse how little she had to show. It had never grown, no matter what her mother promised.
By late August, they’d part ways until next summer. It never occurred to them to exchange addresses or numbers—as though by unspoken rule, the village and the city were separate worlds.
The summer before their final school year, Oliver didn’t come. Mrs. Norris said he’d gone south with his mother. Bored and lonely, Emily wrote to Lily, inviting her to visit. Lily, who had no grandparents or countryside ties, jumped at the chance. One weekend, Emily’s parents brought her along.
Then, unexpectedly, Oliver arrived. Taller, broader, his dark lashes framing eyes Emily envied—he’d become undeniably handsome. Instantly, she regretted inviting Lily. The moment Lily saw him, she was drawn in like a moth to flame.
That night, whispering in the dark, Lily asked, “Have you ever kissed him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been friends since we were kids,” Emily scoffed.
She’d soon regret those careless words.
Suddenly, they were a trio, and Emily was the odd one out. For the first time, she counted down the days until they’d all return home for school.
Oliver faded from her thoughts for a year, and she and Lily remained close—at least, she thought so. After school, Emily didn’t return to the village. Her grandmother passed away that winter. *Will I ever see Oliver again?* she wondered too late, regretting never exchanging details. But she couldn’t ask her parents to retrieve his address from Mrs. Norris—it would’ve seemed absurd.
She and Lily saw less of each other too—different universities, busy lives. And Lily had drifted. When they met, conversations felt rushed, empty.
Then Lily invited her to a wedding.
“What? In your first year? Isn’t that too soon? And your mother agreed?” Emily pressed, baffled.
“What choice did she have? She’ll be a grandmother soon,” Lily said with a smug smile. “Will you be my maid of honour?”
The wedding was just before New Year’s. Emily’s chest constricted when she saw Oliver at her doorstep. She wanted to wake up, run, hide—anything but watch the way they looked at each other. But she was the maid of honour. She couldn’t abandon Lily, no matter how much it hurt. *She could’ve warned me,* Emily thought bitterly. Had she known, she’d never have come.
In every photo, Emily looked awful—the only guest not smiling, lost in the crowd. She left halfway through.
Lily never apologised. *You told me you were just friends,* she’d say later when she still called. Then she had a baby, and their paths diverged for good. Emily forbade herself from thinking of either of them.
But dating? Impossible. Every man was measured against Oliver—and found wanting.
***
How long had it been? Nearly a decade? Her mother mentioned Mrs. Norris had passed, the cottage sold to strangers. And now—this call. Lily was on her way. *What will we even talk about? Why did I agree?* Emily scolded herself.
When she opened the door, she barely recognised Lily. Could ten years change a person so much? This gaunt woman bore no resemblance to the vibrant Lily she’d known. Hollow cheeks, dull eyes, her once-lush frame wasted away.
“Hello. I look that different, do I? May I come in?” Her voice was the same, though brittle now.
“Tea?” Emily offered, flicking the kettle on. Silence thickened between them.
“You haven’t changed at all. I’m dying,” Lily said, matter-of-fact. “They’ve suggested surgery, but I won’t survive it.”
“Cancer?” Emily asked softly.
“Yes. Thought I could beat it. I was wrong. When I’m gone… look after my son.”
“Lily, don’t—you’ll get better,” Emily began weakly.
“Stop. Jamie’s nine. Oliver can’t manage alone.”
“His parents?”
“His mother remarried. Mine—you know her. Unreliable. Please, Emily. There’s no one else.”
“But I—I’ve no experience with children, I wouldn’t know how—”
The kettle boiled, and Emily seized the distraction, hiding her tears as she poured.
“Is this yours?” Lily asked.
“Yes. A colleague of Dad’s was relocating. Sold it cheap. They thought it might… help me settle down.” She didn’t meet Lily’s gaze.
“I knew you fancied him. You’ve every right to hate me. Just… help.” Lily stood. “I’m checking in tomorrow. Don’t visit. They’ll call you when…”
She left without touching her tea.
Emily sat frozen. *It can’t be.*
A week passed. Then two. No call came. Emily fought the urge to phone the hospital, but Lily’s warning stare haunted her. *If they’re not calling, maybe she’s recovering.*
Then Oliver rang. Lily had died that night.
She went straight to his flat. He looked shattered, barely registering her presence. Jamie sat listlessly by the TV. The air reeked of grief.
“Oliver, Lily asked… How can I help?”
“Take Jamie. Just until the funeral,” he muttered.
“No!” The boy shot up from the floor, eyes blazing. Emily realised this wasn’t the first time they’d argued.
“He knows, then. Let him say goodbye,” she said firmly.
Oliver said nothing. Jamie shot her a grateful look.
“Have you eaten?”
The fridge was empty. She scraped together potatoes, fried them, unearthed pickles from under the sink. Jamie devoured his plateOver the years, as Emily and her husband, David, raised Jamie with the same love they’d have given their own child, she realised that sometimes the deepest wounds pave the way for the greatest blessings.
