My Guardian Angel

**My Angel**

Emily kept rejecting the call, but Nathan kept ringing again and again.

“Emily, answer. How long is this going to go on?” Aunt Margaret peeked into the room. “Or just turn it off if you don’t want to talk.” She slammed the door shut.

Emily switched off her phone and tossed it across the sofa. She would’ve done it sooner, but she’d been waiting for Andrew’s call. He’d promised, but two days had passed without a word. As for Nathan—she never wanted to speak to him again, let alone see him. For him, she had crawled out of the shell she’d retreated into after her parents’ death. And he had betrayed her so callously…

***

The roads had been a sheet of black ice that night. Her parents were driving back from her grandmother’s when a drunk driver in a Jeep, speeding from a side street, lost control. The car skidded, slamming straight into theirs. Her mother died instantly. Her father lasted only hours in the hospital.

A year had passed. Emily used to love New Year’s—had counted down the days. Now the thought of it made her shudder. The holiday meant only one thing now: loss. A wound that refused to heal.

She didn’t know how she’d finished her first year at university, how she’d even survived. Her father’s sister, Margaret, had moved in—divorced, unable to have children after a botched abortion years ago.

“Just call me Margaret. ‘Aunt’ makes me feel ancient,” she’d said.

But Margaret couldn’t replace her parents. They weren’t friends, either—Margaret was too busy hunting for love, swiping through dates like coupons.

Emily planned to sleep through New Year’s. But Nathan had begged her to come to his mate’s birthday party two days before.

“I’ve got a girlfriend I never go out with. What am I meant to do, stand there alone? Everyone comes in pairs. It’s a birthday, not a wedding. Come on. You’ve got to start living again. Your mum wouldn’t have wanted you locked up like this.”

That last argument broke her. She agreed. She wore the dress she and her mother had bought last Christmas—never worn.

“You’ll be the most beautiful one there,” her mum had said.

It did suit her.

Margaret gave her a critical once-over. “I’ll never get a husband with you around, looking like that.” She sighed. “Isn’t it a bit revealing? Wait here.” She returned with a silk scarf, a shade darker than the dress—elegant, subtle.

*Mum would’ve approved.*

“Better,” Margaret said. “You can drape it over your shoulders if you get cold.”

The taxi ride to the flat seemed endless. The party was already raging when they arrived. The birthday boy whistled at the sight of Emily.

“Now I see why you kept her hidden. Hand her over, mate,” he joked, wagging a finger at Nathan.

Emily knew no one but Nathan. With him nearby, she felt safe. Then came the dancing. A stranger pulled her in. When the song ended, Nathan was gone.

She wandered the flat, uneasy among strangers. The front door was ajar. Stepping out, she saw him a floor below—locked in a kiss with some girl, like they’d been apart for years. Oblivious.

Emily’s stomach turned. She couldn’t stay. Back inside, she grabbed her coat and boots, but passing them again felt impossible. Instead, she climbed higher, waiting for them to leave.

The cold air on the open balcony stung her flushed face. Cars below looked like snowdrifts.

*Would it hurt to jump?*

The thought shocked her. She jerked back—then leaned over again.

“Don’t even think about it!” A sharp voice. Strong hands yanked her away.

Her scarf snagged, fluttered—then tore free, spiralling down.

“Let go!” Emily snapped. “That scarf—Margaret will kill me!”

“Sorry, I thought—you looked like you were about to—” The boy faltered.

“Why would I jump? I was just looking!” She bristled.

“Come on, let’s find it.” He led her down. Nathan and the girl were gone. That stung—he hadn’t even looked for her.

The scarf clung to a tree branch, flapping. The boy jumped, grabbed it—but the branch cracked. A shred tore off as he fell.

“Sorry. Is it expensive?” He handed her the remains.

“No. But Margaret gave it to me.” She crumpled it into her pocket.

“Leaving already?” he asked.

“None of your business.”

“It’s late. I’ll walk you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Come on.”

Reluctantly, she followed. He hailed a taxi.

“I could’ve managed,” she muttered.

The driver grinned. “Where to, lovebirds?”

She gave her address. Silence stretched until the boy spoke.

“You really weren’t going to jump?”

“What if I was? Who even are you?”

“Andrew.”

“What—*Angel*?”

“If you like.” He smiled. “Mum named me after an old folk-rock band—‘Andrew & Eliza.’”

She studied him. “I’m Elizabeth.”

“Brilliant! Mum always said I’d find my Eliza. Fate, don’t you think?”

She thought he was mocking her—but his face was earnest.

“Why talk about her in the past? Is she… gone?”

“What? No. Alive and well. Married again, lives abroad. I stayed with Dad. He’s the fan.”

Too soon, they arrived.

“Give me your number. It’d be unfair to find you just to lose you.” He pulled out his phone.

She recited it.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” he promised.

***

Two days passed. No call. Emily couldn’t stop thinking about him. Had she imagined him? An actual angel? Then—the doorbell.

“Emily, open up—my hands are covered in flour!” Margaret shouted.

Another suitor. New Year’s Eve, and Margaret was baking to impress. Emily didn’t plan to interfere—she’d hide in her room.

She opened the door—and there he stood.

“Why’d you ignore my calls? Turn off your phone?” Andrew frowned.

“I thought—” She’d rejected every call without checking.

“That bloke bothering you? The one who made you want to jump?” Now he teased. “I came myself. Brought these.” He held out a bag—her forgotten shoes.

“How did you even—find me?”

“I waited. Watched which window lit up.”

“Emily, who is it?” Margaret called.

“For me!” Emily answered.

“Your mum?” Andrew asked.

“No. Margaret.”

“Get dressed. I’ll wait outside.” His tone shifted. “We’re short on time.”

“I’m not going. You don’t get it. I can’t do New Year’s—” Tears welled.

“Just a small gathering. Live music.” His gaze held hers—as if he already knew everything.

“What should I wear?”

“Whatever’s comfortable.”

Minutes later, she reappeared in jeans and a peach sweater—casual, but she knew she looked good.

“Margaret, I’m out. Don’t wait up.” She shut the door.

The club was dim, guitars humming by the far wall. Andrew’s friends waved him over.

“This is Elizabeth,” he introduced.

“Play with us?” one asked.

Andrew sat at the piano. Emily watched, mesmerised.

“Dance?” he asked afterward.

As they moved, she felt something in her chest—thawing.

New Year’s lost its terror. Margaret married and moved out. A year later, so did Emily and Andrew.

“You’re my angel,” she often whispered. “Mum sent you to me.”

“And you’re my Eliza,” he’d reply.

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My Guardian Angel