“Beating Heart”
“You don’t have to go to the branch yourself, William. Let Emily take the documents,” the director said impatiently.
“Sorry, but I’d rather go. It’s my hometown. I haven’t been back in ages.”
“Parents still there?” the director softened slightly.
“No. I moved Mum here, but…”
“I get it,” the director cut in. “Old roots run deep. Fine, go. But tomorrow’s a big day—can you make it back in time?”
“Absolutely,” William promised. “Thank you.” The director waved him off, ending the conversation.
William returned to his office, cleared his desk, shut down his computer, grabbed the file, and locked the door behind him. He left the key with the security guard downstairs.
No point stopping home. From the car, he rang his mother, asked how she was doing, and said he wouldn’t drop by—he had an important meeting. He didn’t mention going back to their old town. She’d only worry, and with her heart condition, that wasn’t good.
“Alright, Mum, gotta go. Call me if you need anything.” He ended the call and started the engine.
On the way out of the city, he pulled into a petrol station, filled up, grabbed a coffee and a couple of pastries—no more stops. Needed to deliver the documents before close of business. Though he could always phone ahead, ask the partners to wait.
No plans to catch up with old friends anyway. They’d all moved away. He just wanted to see the place where he grew up. William turned on the radio, and the car filled with the latest chart-topping tune. He took a sip of hot coffee.
***
After Dad passed, Mum’s health had declined. Tests revealed a weak heart. William had offered to move her to the city—better healthcare there. But she refused outright. He was grown, needed to build his own life; she wouldn’t be a burden. Yet she kept getting worse.
Eventually, he convinced her to sell the house. He chipped in and bought her a small flat near his. After that, he never went back—though he often thought about it.
How could you forget your first love? Maybe she’d left long ago, but the town remained—the same streets, the same house where he’d stood beneath her window, pining. Even now, the memory of Eleanor made his heart race. He’d never felt that way about anyone since. Like he’d left his heart there forever.
In school, he’d barely noticed Eleanor—just another quiet girl in his class—until sixth form. After summer break, she returned different. Grown-up, prettier. And for the first time, William had felt his heart thudding in his chest.
From then on, she was all he thought about. He’d counted down to the Christmas dance, certain he’d ask her, confess his feelings. Finally, the night came. The hall was decked out, sparkling lights everywhere. After the performances, the music shifted to slow dances. He hesitated, watching from the sidelines.
The song ended. Another fast one played. His chance slipped away. Then, finally—a slow melody. The floor cleared.
William took a deep breath. *Now or never.* He pushed off the wall and hurried toward Eleanor before anyone else could.
His heart hammered so hard his vision blurred. He could barely speak. Breathless, he held out a trembling hand.
She exchanged glances with her friends, then—surprisingly—smiled. Right there, in front of everyone, he awkwardly placed a hand on her waist. She rested hers on his shoulders, and they swayed in place.
His limbs were wooden, his body shaking. He barely registered the other couples. All he knew was the strawberry scent of her lipgloss—a smell that would forever remind him of her.
Then the music cut. Eleanor pulled away sharply, rejoining her friends. After a hushed exchange, they burst out laughing, glancing at him. Humiliated, he bolted from the hall.
Months later, the night before her birthday, he crept out of the house with a tin of paint. Under her window, he scrawled *Happy Birthday!* and signed it *W.A.*—his initials, William Abbott. But in his mind, it stood for *With Affection.*
At school, he waited for a sign she’d seen it—some whisper, a glance. Nothing. At break, she invited classmates to her party—not him.
Crushed, he went to her street afterward. His stomach dropped. Last night’s rain had washed the paint away. She never knew.
That evening, he lingered outside her house. Music and laughter spilled from her window. Someone stepped onto the balcony—a lighter clicked. He walked home alone.
At prom, he made one last attempt. Asked her to dance.
“I don’t dance,” she said, turning away.
“I’m leaving for uni soon,” he rasped. “Eleanor, I love you.”
She spun around. “Well, I don’t love *you*.”
He drank too much, went home early. Moved away for studies. Once, during winter break, he saw her with some bloke. He locked himself in his dorm after that.
Later, he heard she’d married. He tried to forget. Dated others—never felt the same.
***
Lost in thought, William reached the town, handed over the documents.
“Staying the night?” the client asked.
“No, just grabbing a bite, then heading back,” William replied.
“*Just* grabbing a bite,” the man chuckled. “Come on, I’ll take you somewhere decent.”
William agreed. He’d grown up here but had never set foot in a proper restaurant. Crystal chandeliers, blindingly white tablecloths—it felt alien.
Before they sat, a waitress approached. The tight white blouse, the short black skirt—Eleanor had changed, but he knew her instantly.
He skipped the wine, ordering steak and a salad. When she returned with the food, he caught the client eyeing her.
*Why parade yourself like this?* Irritation prickled. No racing heart this time.
Later, over coffee, the client checked his watch.
“Go ahead,” William said. “I’ll leave soon.” Relieved, the man left.
Eleanor returned.
“Hi. Didn’t recognise you at first. More coffee?”
“No. Had enough.” He gestured to the chair. “Sit with me?”
“Can’t. Shift ends in an hour. Wait for me?”
He nodded.
Paid the bill, stepped outside. Craved a cigarette—though he’d quit years ago. Bought a pack at a corner shop, lingered by the restaurant. Part of him screamed to leave. But if he did, it’d mean he was still scared.
Soon, she emerged. He drove her home. She hesitated before getting out.
“Where now? A hotel?”
“No, driving back. Need to be at work early.”
He studied her—thick makeup, dark eyeliner. His pulse stayed steady.
“Why just sit here? Fifteen minutes won’t change anything. Come up. See my place. Have tea.” She flashed a coy smile.
Climbing the stairs, he wondered: *Why?*
Her parents had retired, left her the flat, moved to the countryside. She brewed tea, then pulled out a half-finished vodka bottle.
“Don’t get the wrong idea—I don’t drink much. Just need to unwind sometimes.” She sighed. “Job’s brutal. High heels all day, rude customers…”
“Why not find something else?”
“Easy for you to say—city life’s different. Tips help, though.” She drank, grew chatty. First marriage lasted a year—he cheated. Second husband drank. She poured another shot.
“Remember that dance? Sixth form?”
Of course he remembered. If he’d been braver, maybe things would’ve been different.
Suddenly, she stood, pulling him up. They held each other. Then she tipped her head back.
“Kiss me.”
Her eyes gleamed—booze or tears? He obeyed. No strawberry taste now—just vodka bitterness. Once, he’d have died for this. Now? Nothing.
Later, in bed, she murmured about life not turning out as she’d dreamed. Regretted how things had gone. *Could’ve been us.* All he wanted was a smoke.
He stepped onto the balcony. The night air chilled him. When he returned, she was asleep—makeup smeared, hair tangled, years older.
He dressed, left quietly. Outside, he glanced at the spot where his paint had washed away. Hoped she wasn’t watching from the window.
At a petrol station, he found a flower stall.
“Do you deliver?”
“From 9 a.m.,” the drowsy attendant said.
He remembered the restaurant didn’t open till noon. She’d be home. He picked the biggest bouquet, tucked in a note: *Thanks for last night.* The address? Still etched in memory.
The motorway was empty. As he drove, his mind circled back. *Gym membership, new clothes, quitting drink—she could still turn things around.*
But withBut as the city faded in the rearview mirror, he realized the past could stay where it belonged—behind him.
