**Second Chance**
My heart was heavy as I left the cemetery, the way it always is after visiting the graves. The bus back was quiet, filled with passengers lost in their own thoughts.
As we turned off the ring road into the city, rows of squat one- and two-storey houses stretched past the window. Soon, even these would be gone, replaced by vast new estates with wide streets and towering flats.
On impulse, I got off at the next stop. What if, the next time I visited, the neighbourhood I grew up in had vanished? I walked down the street, past peeling little houses, my stomach knotting at the thought that I might not even recognise my own home—the place where the happiest days of my life had been.
Most of the windows were shattered, doors hanging open like silent screams. The tenants had long since been moved to new, modern flats. The street was deserted, only the occasional car or bus passing by. Then—there it was. My house. I smiled at it like an old friend.
Without its people, the house felt lifeless. Only the bench by the entrance remained, its wood blackened with age. Just two doors down, the boom of a crane loomed. Soon, this house too would be rubble.
I closed my eyes and for a moment, I could see Mum at the second-floor window, watching for me among the girls playing hopscotch in the yard. The clatter of dishes drifted from open windows, the smell of fried onions in the air. Someone’s telly droned in the background. From Auntie Nelly’s flat came the sharp scolding of her drunk husband.
*”Faye! Dinner!”* Mum’s voice rang out from the past.
I startled, my eyes flying open. No Mum. No one. Just empty windows staring back at me.
But now, the memories wouldn’t stop.
***
*”Faye! Dinner!”* Mum shouted from the window.
I raced up the worn-out steps to our second-floor flat, bursting through the door just in time to hear, *”Wash your hands and sit down!”* Dad sat between the table and the fridge, pretending to read the newspaper while waiting for us all to gather.
The memory was so vivid I could almost smell the tangy beef stew. Tears pricked my eyes, trailing down my cheeks. I wiped them away with my fingertips.
There I was again, schoolbag in hand. I’d barely taken three steps when I heard the pounding of Jake’s feet behind me.
*”Faye, wait up!”* he called, catching up to walk beside me. *”Can I copy your algebra homework?”*
*”Why didn’t you come round last night?”* I asked.
*”Your mum looks at me like I’m about to nick something,”* he muttered.
*”Don’t be daft.”* I glanced at his profile. How much he’d changed over the summer—taller, his dark hair sun-bleached, his skin tanned. His shirt collar gaped, revealing the thin column of his neck, a vein pulsing at the side. I couldn’t actually see it now, but I remembered.
When had he grown up like this? Jake—my childhood friend, our downstairs neighbour—was both familiar and strange all at once.
He must’ve felt me staring because he turned, catching me before I could look away. His whisky-coloured eyes burned me; my cheeks flamed.
Both our dads worked at the factory that had secured us these crumbling flats. Jake’s mum was an accountant there; mine, a nurse at the local hospital. The factory still stood nearby, its thick chimneys spewing smoke.
*”Where are you applying to uni?”* I asked suddenly.
*”Manchester. Engineering. Then back to the factory—maybe even run it one day.”*
*”Seriously?”* I laughed, disbelieving. *”Who dreams of being a factory director?”*
*”Just wait,”* he grinned.
*”But why? That place is falling apart. Easier to build a new one.”*
*”It’ll never close,”* he said firmly. *”It’s the heart of this town. Without it, thousands lose their jobs. What about you?”*
*”London. Languages. Maybe translation—see the world. Or psychology. Not sure yet.”*
Late September, our class went to a mate’s countryside cottage for his birthday. Golden leaves crunched underfoot; low sunlight dazzled through the thinning trees.
The girls helped set up lunch outside while the lads played football. Afterwards, we wandered the woods. That was where Jake first kissed me.
That year—we were mad for each other. Kissing till our lips were sore. One night, Mum was on shift, Dad stuck at the factory. Jake came over to copy my maths homework.
It happened then—quick, clumsy. Afterwards, we stared at each other, lost. I made him promise never to do it again. He nodded, upset, and left. The next day, we walked to school in silence.
Days later, we finally talked.
*”We’ll get married after school,”* he said.
*”I’m leaving,”* I reminded him quietly.
*”Don’t go.”*
Our first real argument.
At the New Year’s dance, I saw Jake snogging Lucy in a dim classroom. I ran home crying. Winter break made avoiding him easy—but he turned up at my door.
*”Why are you avoiding me?”*
*”You’ve got Lucy now. I saw you.”*
*”She threw herself at me! Was I supposed to hit her?”*
I knew Lucy—she chased every decent-looking lad. And Jake *was* decent-looking now. I burned with jealousy.
But as time passed, Lucy disappeared. We tiptoed around each other all through sixth form, torn between love and restraint.
After graduation, our class took a boat down the Thames. We stopped at a little beach, set up a picnic. Someone brought wine. The teacher even had a sip. Later, Jake and I slipped into the woods. Kissed again.
*”Don’t go. You could study here.”*
*”Come with me,”* I countered.
*”Mum would never let me. Dad’s heart’s dodgy. Besides, the factory’s good for placements. Five years’ll fly. You’ll come back and then—”*
*”Faye! Jake! We’re leaving!”* our teacher shouted.
We emerged flushed, lips swollen.
We revised together until Jake’s dad came home early one day, caught us kissing. He said nothing, just shut the door. But after that, Jake never came round. After results day, his parents shipped him off to his gran’s. He couldn’t even see me off to London.
At first, we rang each other constantly. Then our parents complained about the phone bills. Mobiles weren’t what they are now.
Calls grew fewer. Then Jake married Lucy. I barely scraped through my first term. A year later, I started seeing someone—married him by final year. Realised my mistake quickly. Divorced.
I became a translator, travelled often, made London my home. When Dad died, I brought Mum to live with me. We sold the flat, used his savings and a loan to buy a place in the suburbs.
Two years ago, Mum passed. I buried her beside Dad. Came back once a year to tend the graves. I never saw Jake. He’d moved long ago.
***
*”Looking for someone?”* a creaky voice asked.
I turned to see a hunched old woman with a walking stick, her eyes pale as the autumn sky.
*”Been watching you. Standing, staring.”*
*”Auntie Nelly?”* I recognised our old neighbour.
*”Aye. Who’re you again?”* She squinted.
*”Faye. Faye Rosemont. Lived upstairs—remember?”*
*”Faye? Blimey. You went off to London, took your mum.”*
*”Yes. Just visiting my parents’ graves.”*
*”So, Margaret’s gone too.”* She crossed herself. *”How long?”*
*”Two years.”*
*”You’ve changed. Me? Can’t seem to die. New flat’s nice, but it’s not home. Lived here all my life. Thought I’d die here, neighbours seeing me off. Now? All scattered. Soon this’ll be gone too. New towers. What a life—folks don’t even know each other. Ah, well.”*
She nodded towards a black Range Rover pulling up. A tall man in a sharp suit stepped out, another older man beside him.
*”There’s Jake. Boss now. Important. I’ll ask when they’re demolishing the place.”* She shuffled towards them, bent like a tired horse.
I didn’t wait. My heart hammered. Thought it was all in the past—till I saw him. Nothing had faded. Not the love, not the hurt.
I caught the next bus back to the hotel, collapsed on the bed, and cried myself to sleep. Woke near dusk, straightened up, headed down to eat. Hadn’She opened the door to find Jake standing there with a suitcase, his eyes steady and certain, saying, “I’ve made my choice—it’s you.”
