The Blue Vein
How Nathan adored her. He lost his mind over her, lingering beneath her window late into the evening, thrilled if he caught even a glimpse of her silhouette. To him, she seemed untouchable, unreachable. He cherished her fragility—her pale, delicate skin through which faint blue veins traced like whispers beneath the surface. His heart ached with tenderness just looking at her.
At the school Christmas ball, Nathan worked up the courage to ask her to dance. Beatrice was shorter than him, making it awkward, but he didn’t care. His hands trembled, his forehead grew damp, and his palms burned where they rested on her waist. He hated how obvious his nerves were, how she must have noticed. When the music ended, he stepped back, finally able to breathe properly again.
It baffled him that no other boys seemed to see what he saw in her.
Tom, for instance, fancied strapping Lucy with her long, athletic legs. During P.E., Lucy towered over the other girls as she ran laps, her high ponytail swinging like a pendulum.
But to Nathan, Beatrice was perfection—slight, ethereal, untouchable. She haunted his thoughts like an obsession. His mother, however, didn’t share his admiration. “Pretty, but so fragile,” she’d murmured to his father one evening. “We need to steer him away from her. What kind of wife would she make? Too delicate, too dreamy. And that name—Beatrice—so unusual, so foreign.”
His father agreed. “Send him to study somewhere else—Manchester, perhaps. A prestigious university, better opportunities. We’ll cover the costs if he doesn’t get a scholarship.” And so Nathan went.
Above his dorm bed, he pinned a blown-up photo of Beatrice, cropped from a class picture. But she remained at home, and Nathan was young. He gained experience, dated other girls, yet kept Beatrice tucked away in his memory, visiting him in dreams.
Then he met Emily. With her, there were no trembling hands, no racing heart—just quiet understanding. She was steady, reliable. Slowly, Beatrice faded to the background.
After graduation, Nathan married Emily and stayed in Manchester. His mother was relieved. “Far better than that peculiar Beatrice,” she’d say.
A year later, their daughter Sophie was born. Nathan adored her. A single sneeze sent him into a panic, ready to summon every doctor in the city. Beatrice became nothing more than a distant dream.
Then came the call. “Your father’s in hospital,” his mother said, voice tight. “They’re operating. Come home.”
Sophie had a cold, so Emily stayed behind. Nathan took unpaid leave and travelled alone.
Manchester saw him off with drizzle, but his hometown welcomed him with golden leaves and crisp autumn air. His father was recovering well, his mother never leaving his side. With the worst over, Nathan prepared to return to his family.
On the walk back from the hospital, he spotted a young woman adjusting a pram. His heart lurched before his mind caught up—Beatrice.
“Hello,” he said, approaching.
She straightened, recognising him with a small smile. Time hadn’t erased the delicate transparency of her skin, the faint blue vein at her temple, or the quiet sadness in her eyes.
“Visiting your parents?” she asked.
“My father was in hospital. Surgery.”
“Is he alright?” Worry flickered across her face.
“He’s fine now. And you?” He nodded at the pram.
“Mine,” she said, and he knew at once she was alone.
A wave of pity washed over him. He wanted to cradle her face and kiss her right there on the street. Instead, he walked her home, asking about old classmates, sharing updates without waiting for questions. He carried the pram upstairs—she still lived in her family’s flat. Her parents had retired to the countryside.
“Come by sometime,” she said as they parted.
For a moment, he considered following her inside—but stopped himself. Some things never changed.
The next morning, he bought roses and went to her. She wasn’t surprised, only hushed him—her daughter was sleeping.
“Hungry? Tea?” she offered in the cramped kitchen.
“No, thanks. Mum’s been feeding me nonstop.”
Her nearness sent his pulse racing. When she set the vase down, her face was inches from his. The blue vein pulsed at her temple.
He couldn’t resist—he kissed it. She froze, then wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging like a reed in the wind. He lifted her onto the table—
A cry from the next room shattered the moment. Beatrice pushed him away, darting to her daughter. Nathan exhaled sharply, walking out to find her cradling the child, tears glistening in the little girl’s eyes.
“I should go,” he rasped.
She nodded, seeing him out. As he opened the door, a whisper stopped him:
“She sleeps soundly after ten. Come back then.”
He turned, searching her face—desperate hope stared back.
Walking away, he grappled with his thoughts. Years ago, he’d have leaped at the chance. Now, it terrified him. Regret gnawed at him—for the kiss, for the temptation. But he remembered Emily—steady, his rock.
That evening, his mother returned exhausted but relieved. “Your father’s eating well. He’ll be alright. You should go home to your wife and daughter.”
The decision was made. Nathan left that night, stopping only to say goodbye to his father.
On the train, he imagined Beatrice waiting by the window, listening for his knock. But then he thought of Emily and Sophie—his home, his certainty.
“This wasn’t betrayal,” he told himself. “That wasn’t me in the kitchen—just the ghost of a boy who once loved a girl with a blue vein.”
By dawn, he was home. Emily, making breakfast, greeted him with surprise and warmth. Sophie woke soon after, squealing, “Daddy!” as she threw herself into his arms. He breathed in her sweet, familiar scent and smiled.
At Christmas, they visited his parents. On a walk, they passed Beatrice pushing her pram, her daughter bundled against the cold. Nathan hung back just long enough to wish her a happy New Year before catching up to Emily and Sophie.
Now, he couldn’t fathom why he’d once burned so fiercely for her. He felt only remorse for his weakness—and gratitude that he’d chosen his family.
Beatrice would stay as she always had—a shimmering, bittersweet memory of first love, beautiful precisely because it could never be real. Some things, once lost, are best left untouched.
