Once, I dreamed of coming to you and saying I love you…
Emily Whitmore placed the last marked workbook on top of the pile at the edge of her desk. Now came the tedious task of grading the term reports. Outside the staffroom windows, night had long since fallen, and under the glow of streetlamps, snowflakes drifted lazily down.
A metallic clang echoed outside the door, followed by the wet slap of a mop hitting the floor. That would be Doris—or “Doris the Cleaner,” as even the staff called her—dragging her bucket up to the second floor to scrub the corridor. Spotting the strip of light under the staffroom door, Doris muttered just loudly enough to be heard:
“Sitting here till all hours, trampling my clean floors… Why don’t they just go home?” The mop rasped against the linoleum in agreement.
*Well, Doris, no one’s waiting for me. You’ll have to put up with me for another half-hour*, Emily sighed to herself and opened the class register.
Forty minutes later, she slammed it shut, shelved it with the others, and paused. She hadn’t even noticed when the noises outside had stopped. Emily slipped on her coat in front of the mirror, grabbed her handbag, glanced around the staffroom, and flicked off the light. The floors were still damp, gleaming faintly under the dim emergency bulb at the end of the corridor.
Downstairs, even the security desk was empty now. She popped into the tiny office, hung the key in the glass-fronted cabinet, and called out, “I’m off! Staffroom’s locked, key’s in there!”
Silence. No response, no one came out. But she knew the school was never truly empty—there was always a caretaker or a guard on night duty.
*Goodbye, then!* she announced to no one in particular before stepping outside.
A few paces from the school gates, she turned back and spotted the elderly security guard locking the door from the inside.
The icy playground path, worn slick by hundreds of students, was already dusted with fresh snow. Emily picked her way carefully across the courtyard and slipped through the iron gates.
The street was long deserted, cars few and far between. Emily quickened her step.
At childhood tea parties, she’d always played the teacher—what else, when her mother taught English literature? University had been easy, her path set from the start.
Their faculty had few men, and those there were only had eyes for the glamorous girls—which Emily didn’t consider herself. So by graduation, she’d left with a degree but no ring, not even a boyfriend.
She wasn’t fussed—there was time. People often mistook her for a sixth-former. Her mother, though, fretted. “Teaching changes you,” she’d say. “The longer you do it, the harder it’ll be to find a decent man.” Her parents bought her a flat, gave her independence.
But what good was independence when the staffroom was a sea of women? Aside from the PE teacher (who fancied anything in a skirt), the stern ex-army safeguarding officer (already a grandfather), and the two elderly caretakers?
“Don’t end up like me—married late, one child at forty,” her mother had sighed.
As if worrying aloud would magic up a husband.
Christmas lights twinkled in windows as Emily turned into a quiet lane. She hadn’t bothered with a tree—why would she? She’d just spend New Year’s at her parents’, same as always. Then footsteps sounded behind her.
A man, hood shadowing his face, kept pace a few yards behind. She clutched her bag tighter and sped up.
At the next corner, she ducked behind a wall, holding her breath. Seconds ticked by—no footsteps passing. Finally, she peeked out—and collided with him.
“What do you want?” Her voice shook. “Stop following me! I’ll call the police!” For emphasis, she squeaked, *Help!*
The man pushed back his hood.
“Miss Whitmore? It’s me—Daniel Carter.” He smiled.
*Daniel?* She squinted. The tall, broad-shouldered man bore little resemblance to the lanky teen from her first Year 11 class. “Are you robbing me?” she gasped, eyes wide.
“God, no. I’ve been walking you home for days—it’s dark, the streets are dodgy, and you stayed late today.”
“You’ve what?”
“Tonight’s later than usual,” he said, unfazed. “Marking, I suppose?”
She exhaled. “Term reports. I lost track.”
“Did the school tree go up yet?”
“Yesterday,” she admitted, smiling despite herself.
“Always loved that smell—proper Christmas, you know? Impossible to focus on lessons those last days before break.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Let me walk you the rest of the way.”
“That’s alright, Daniel,” she said, calmer now. “It’s just round the corner.”
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” he pressed, suddenly serious. “Please?”
They walked. She asked about his life—freelance IT work, plans to open a shop with his mate, Steve Nichols (“You remember him?”).
At her doorstep, he hesitated. “Your lights are always off. No one waiting?”
“Should’ve been a detective,” she teased, thanking him before turning to go.
“Not inviting me up, Miss Whitmore?”
“It’s late,” she said over her shoulder. “Another time.”
The next evening, she left school early. Barely had she changed and put the kettle on when the doorbell rang. Expecting her mother on another “pop-in inspection,” she opened it—
To find Daniel clutching a pine tree and a printer-paper box.
“Evening. Figured you didn’t have one.” His grin was infectious.
“That’s sweet, but I’m at my parents’ for New Year’s.” His smile faltered. She relented. “Come in.”
The flat filled with pine scent as he set up the tree. Decorating it, their hands kept brushing—both pretended not to notice. Over tea, he leaned forward.
“Can I call you Emily? The whole ‘Miss’ thing feels weird now.”
She liked that he didn’t default to “Em.” Hated that—sounded like a children’s book character.
“Stalked my socials, did you?”
He laughed. “Too forward if I say ‘you’ now? We’re not in class.” Before she could react, he added, “Had a crush on you back then. You went bright red giving out detentions.”
Her turn to flush. She’d noticed his looks—pupils got silly crushes, especially on young teachers. But she’d never cross that line.
That first class stayed with her. At prom, Daniel had asked her to dance—just them waltzing under everyone’s stares. None of the boys could manage it, but her mother had taught her.
“You know,” he said, “I worked harder because of you. Couldn’t stand looking thick in front of you. Then I thought—if I make something of myself, maybe one day… But I lost patience. Worried someone else might get there first.”
She studied him—no trace of the boy left. Just a man with warm eyes and rough edges softened by hope.
“Daniel, I’m older—”
“Four years? Who cares these days?”
“You’re serious? About—me?”
He met her gaze. “Loved you for years. Waited to say it right.” His voice wavered. “We’ve both changed. So let’s spend New Year’s together—properly meet now. Give me a chance. Please.”
*Why not?* Her mother would rejoice. No more “biological clock” lectures. And he did look… different.
“Alright,” she whispered.
His face lit up. “Brilliant! You handle dinner, I’ll bring fizz. No boring night, promise.” He stood, hesitated. “It’s late. We’ll sort details tomorrow.”
His look—pleading, tender—sent her pulse racing. She looked away first.
At the door, he paused. “You’ll see. I’m worth it.”
She leaned against the wall afterward, cheeks burning.
Next day, she phoned her mother: “Not coming for New Year’s. And… I won’t be alone.”
Her mum descended within the hour, demanding details. Emily skipped the “former student” part—her mother, a council education officer, would clutch her pearls at the scandal.
By summer term, Emily wore an engagement ring and a bump under her flowing dresses. Daniel met her after school daily.
The single teachers watched them leave with envy; the girls cooed over her maternity styles. And whatever anyone thought—Emily and Daniel didn’t care a bit.
